Fallen
by Rockabella Suzy
Summary: Sequel to To Catch a Ghost. Both Moriarty and Samantha are trying to rebuild their lives after their shared tempestuous history. But when unusual circumstances throw them together again will history repeat itself?
1. Sanctuary

_Author's Note: So this is the third (and probably last) installment of my Moriarty/OC fic. If you haven't already, I recommend catching up by reading the first two stories "Game Changer" and "To Catch a Ghost"_

Somewhere outside London, Great Britain

2 years ago

Samantha awoke to the morning light glowing through the muslin curtains. Another day in this limbo. She couldn't stand it. She was tempted to make contact with the agency, explain everything, explain how she'd been manipulated, how she had...lost. What would they do to her? She remembered a time she had to capture a rogue agent before. She never knew what became of him in the end other than he was "taken care of". Would the same happen to her? Not knowing the possible outcome filled her with dread but not acting at all drove her insane. She couldn't live like this: as a vagrant, as a fugitive. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling in her mind that everything was wrong and broken, and it swelled in her thoughts like a fresh sore.

She pulled the duvet tight around her body. She didn't want to leave the bed. She wanted to sleep until she could wake up to her old life again. She was safe here from the world and its consequences. Here was sanctuary.

Her heart skipped a beat as a warm hand slid over her bare hip. There was some movement next to her and a kiss reached the top of her cheek.

"You're still here," she said softly.

"I'm still here," replied the husky Irish voice.

She rolled on her back and met Moriarty's dark gaze. His eyes were hooded having just woken up and his hair was ruffled. It was a curious thing to see this man at his most human - a privilage perhaps. But what disturbed her was her ability to separate this man from the one that ruined her.

"Are you leaving today?" she asked.

"Not today," he replied kissing her neck. "Unless you want me to."

She turned her head toward the window again and stared at the foggy glow of morning. Her skin prickled pleasurably as he continued to gently kiss her. Her mind relaxed. She decided to not feel wrong or guilty about this. There was nothing for her beyond that window. Here was her escape, her sanctuary.

"Stay," she whispered.

"I'm all yours," he said before his lips met hers.


	2. Fallen

_Author's Note: I started to write this chapter first and was really having trouble with it. I had written two other chapters before I finished this. Still not that happy with it =/_

Kaikoura, New Zealand

Present day

Moriarty lay awake, staring at the white ceiling. All was silent but for the sound of the sea gently lapping the beach outside. The light of a brilliant full moon shone through the crack in the curtains.

He could never forget. The image of her was etched in his mind, wet and shivering after being pulled from the lake, faded red hair plastered to her face and scalp, her green eyes fixed on him...and the hurt in her expression...

"And what about me? Was there any part of you that cared what happened to me?"

He was initially taken aback. She wasn't one for emotional outbursts unless the stakes were particularly high. But he quickly surmised how his actions had affected her. In spite of everything, her conviction, her sense of morality, in her own strange way she had fallen for him. He had to be cruel, it was the kindest thing he could do for her. It would have made it easier for her to let go. And yet at the same time he regretted it because in his own selfishness he wanted her to be still thinking about him. He wanted her to pine for him like he pined for her now.

It was many a night such as this that he lay awake thinking about her. More so he tried to reminisce about their intimate moments but his fantasies were often interrupted by the image of their last encounter together. He was disgusted with himself. How had he fallen so far?

He sighed and shut his eyes, trying to imagine her in bed with him. He tried to remember what her lips felt like against his, how her hair brushed against his skin. He relaxed again, his mind awash with the comfort of familiarity.

A crash from the next room disrupted his thoughts. His eyes flicked open, his mood instantly souring. He heard scuffling. A woman's cry. Another crash. What on earth...? Had he been found? The scuffle continued for another moment until he heard what sounded like a body fall to the ground. He hesitated, listening for further movement but there was just silence. Someone was dead, which meant someone was still alive. Cautiously, silently he reached for the pistol under his mattress and clipped the safety off. He never cared for guns, he always paid someone else to, but being in such a vulnerable position pushed him to keep one close at all times. He slid out of bed and crept toward the door and into the hallway. He paused, straining for any sign of movement. Silence. He made his way to the next room. The door was shut, no sign of forced entry. He entered slowly, gun pointed before him. A figure in the room caused him to aim but he cocked the gun when he realised it was just Nika. She was searching the body of a man who lay still on the bedroom floor. Glass from the dresser mirror was scattered in pieces around him. He couldn't tell whether he was dead or not in the dim light.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Nika spoke deadpan, examining papers she retrieved from the man's pockets.

"Oh it's alright sweetie. Maybe next time just keep it down to a dull roar."

"Yes, boss."

He grew impatient with her nonchalance.

"Well?"

She glanced at him calmly.

"Who is he!?" he exploded.

"No one you know," she said dismissively returning to searching the man's pockets.

Like the flick of a switch his fuse blew. Moriarty reached out to grab her by the throat, pushing her against the end of the bed and causing her head to hit against the foot board with a thud.

"How did he find us?" he barked, his face centimetres from hers.

She glared back as if appalled by his audacity. The wind was knocked out of him then as she kicked just below his rib cage causing him to release his clutch and stumble back. He landed heavily on his backside, wincing at the pain in his tailbone.

"Remember our talk about trust and mutual respect?" Nika said.

"This is serious," he retorted, bringing himself to his feet.

"You have nothing to worry about."

"How can you say that?" he shouted. He paced back and forth. His nerves were frayed. He had been careful - so, so careful. The thought of having to run again made his stomach churn with anxiety.

She glanced up at him through her blonde hair which was uncharacteristically unkempt. She was wearing her white nightdress which told him she had been attacked while still in bed.

"Because he was after me, not you. This doesn't concern you," she spoke calmly.

"Nika, if you're in danger, I'm in danger. Do you understand? I'm the most wanted criminal on the planet right now. Most of my men are locked up or being tortured for information. If I lose you, I have nothing."

She seemed to contemplate this as she rose to her feet. He studied her features. Her eyes narrowed as if chasing a thought, her lips curled upward slightly at the corners. He knew that look.

"Then help me," she said.

"What?"

"You get these guys off my back and I can keep working by your side. Fair?"

He sighed. Lay low, keep hands clean, don't draw attention. This was the plan and it was all going to hell.

"Who is he?" he asked wearily.

"See for yourself."

He glanced down and shoved the unmoving body with one foot to get a better look. Asian...Japanese more likely, tattoos...

"Oh for god sake. Yakuza? Really?"

"You knew I was on their hit list," Nika argued.

He mentally groaned. He didn't have time for this.

"Who do I have to kill?" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Technically the entire chapter that's after me," she admitted, smiling guiltily, "It might make more sense to reason with them."

"Reason with them? What did you do to piss them off?"

"I destroyed one of their casinos," she said, waving a hand as if it were no big deal, "It was a job I was doing for a rival Yakuza chapter. Before your time obviously."

"And reason with them is all you got?"

"Sure. You've got money. Give them enough to rebuild their casino and it'll be fine."

"I've had some experience with Japanese mobs. Some are highly hung up on honour and whatnot. What makes you so sure it's as easy as paying them off?"

"Well I guess I'm not. But-" Both their attention turned to the body as the man groaned and moved slightly. Nika glanced back with a smirk. "We could always ask."

* * *

"Wakey, wakey! Up and at 'em!" Moriarty sang shining the torch from his phone in the man's droopy eyes. The man screwed his eyes shut in response and tried to move before realising he was tied to a chair.

"Oh see? He's fine," he said, glancing back at Nika.

"I must be losing my touch," she tutted, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Hello!" Moriarty enunciated, "Do you speak any English? My Japanese is atrocious."

The man didn't respond but the slightest twitch in his facial features gave himself away. He understood perfectly.

"My associate," Moriarty thumbed back towards Nika, "whom you tried to kill, is of some value to me so I'm willing to come to some agreement with your employer to do away with the hit on her life."

The man's face contorted, his bottom lip trembled and in an explosive sob he exclaimed in Japanese "I have failed!"

"Oh god he's actually crying." Moriarty said with consternation.

It was then he realised how young he was - probably 19. The tattoos around his neck seemed fresh.

"Aw. He's just a kid," he doted, and glancing back at Nika he said, "Your hit could have been an initiation test or something."

"I am insulted," Nika snorted. She was holding a kitchen knife in one hand, tapping it impatiently against her thigh.

"Relax, kid, we're not going to do anything to you...maybe. We just need you to open a line of communication between us and your boss."

The man shook his head. "They will kill me."

Moriarty and Nika exchanged glances. He sighed wearily. He was too tired for this. He couldn't remember the last time he got a decent night's sleep. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

"What's your name?"

The man hesitated, his eyes shifting back and forth as if contemplating what he had to lose.

"Jirou," he said eventually.

"Ok Jirou," he piped irritably, "In addition to Nika's I will also bargain for your life. I'll make sure you stay alive. But I need your cooperation. Deal?"

"How can you make that promise?"

"I assure you, I'm a very powerful man and I usually get my way."

"And that's why you're hiding in a beach house on an island."

His expression hardened.

"Jirou, do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do?"

Jirou sniggered, half nervous, half mocking.

"Don't get me wrong, it took us a while to find you, but you don't have the same hold over the criminal network. Elusive yes, powerful, no, not for a long time."

Moriarty glared at the man. Something ignited in him then, something familiar - a yearning for power, for control. He had spent so long running he had forgotten what it felt like. He was going to rebuild his empire and he was going to start with this man.

"OK," he said with feigned resignation. He turned his back to him and nodded toward Nika. She stepped forward, straddled the man and waved the point of the knife at different parts of his face as if deciding where to start cutting. After a moment she placed the blade to the back of his ear.

"Alright, alright, alright!" he cried, almost in tears again. Nika backed away, rolling her eyes. "I'll help. But you have to promise not to kill me and not to let them kill me either."

Moriarty bent forward so that his face was inches from Jirou's.

"Make the call," he hissed, "Now."

"My...phone. P-please."

He retrieved the phone from the counter where his other belongings were left.

"The number?" He unlocked the phone, his tired brain deciphering the Japanese characters.

"It's the last entry in my call logs," Jirou replied.

He hit the call button on the first number that appeared. He waited for a ring tone before putting the phone to Jirou's ear.

"Moshi-moshi... Hai... Īe..." Jirou spoke quickly and fearfully.

Moriarty listened intently making sure nothing was said that indicated betrayal. The tone on the other end seemed greatly displeased and Jirou was doing his best to sound assuaging. The conversation ended abruptly and the man glanced up at him.

"We leave for Osaka tomorrow." he said, sounding defeated.

"Good. I can finally get some sleep."

Moriarty tossed the phone to Nika and headed toward the hallway.

"Wait. You're just going to leave me tied to a chair overnight?"

"Yup."


	3. The Talk

London, Great Britain

1 year ago

Samantha sighed a puff of cold air as she hesitated outside 221B Baker Street. She had been given the chance to make reparations with John and had been looking forward to it all week. Now though, doubt had crossed her mind. She recalled the awkwardness of the phone conversation she had with him last week. She had used and betrayed him. Even though John understood her reasons would their friendship still be the same? Would the real Samantha feel the same to John as the Samantha he thought he knew?

She took a breath and knocked. What seemed like the longest moment passed before the door opened. John stood before her wearing a beige sweater and blue jeans. She smiled. It was good to see him again.

"Hi," Samantha piped with a little wave.

"Hi," John replied shifting nervously.

"I brought wine." She held up the bottle she was carrying. "Hope you like red. It's a little cold from the walk though."

"Well come on in and we'll warm it up." John held the door open wider. "And you. You must be freezing."

"It's getting a little nippy these days." Samantha entered into the hallway and was instantly comforted by the warmth of central heating. Memories of her time living in this building flooded to the front of her mind...followed by more unpleasant reminders. "Is it just you here or is Sherlock around?"

"Sherlock is on a case," said John, taking Samantha's coat, scarf and the bottle of wine, "so its just us tonight."

"Oh good." Samantha caught herself. "I mean... I just don't think he likes me all that much."

John chuckled, leading her into the kitchen.

"Don't take it personally. He doesn't like anyone."

Samantha glanced around. The apartment was much the same as she remembered.

"Where's Gladstone?" she asked, noting the absence of the dog.

"Oh. I had to rehome him when Sherlock moved back in."

"He doesn't like dogs?"

"Actually it was more that he considered Gladstone a prime subject for his experiments. He's most definitely in a better place right now."

Samantha grinned. She missed the way she and John used to chat like this.

"So what's on the menu this evening?" She asked.

"Ah, well now," John tossed her an apron and emptied a shopping bag onto the counter. An assortment of ingredients spilled out. "For your first cooking lesson we'll be making an exquisite dish of the finest Italian cuisine: Spaghetti Bolognese." He pronounced the name in an exaggerated Italian accent.

"That's...a lot ingredients," Samantha pointed out warily.

"It's not as daunting as it looks. Spag bol is a very simple dish to make."

"Alright. I'll take your word for it. Where do we begin?"

John gave a laugh.

"Ok. No dilly-dallying for you then," he said jovially, "Well, first thing's first: preparation." He handed Samantha a carrot. "Peel and dice."

Samantha tied the apron around her waist and took the carrot.

"That I can do," she said affirmatively. She got to work while John pulled out a few saucepans and measured out the pasta. He explained a few rules of thumb in the meantime: prepare everything before you start cooking, tidy as you go and so on. When she finished dicing the carrot (with some less than elegant results) she began chopping an onion on John's orders.

"So how's the new place working out for you?" he asked as he began crushing some garlic.

"I like it," Samantha replied, "It's pretty central, near a gym and it has a fabulous view. I was lucky to snap it up when I did."

"That's good to hear," John said, "I think Mrs. Hudson misses your tenancy though. Haven't had anyone fill 221C yet."

"Ah, well...I didn't think it was appropriate for me to stick around after...you know...everything."

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, that's not what I meant at all," John babbled, panicked.

"It's alright, I must have misinterpreted-"

"No it was my bad, I-"

"It's fine, John."

They both lapsed into silence. Samantha stared down at the chopping board, fiddling with the bits of chopped onion with the knife.

"How have you been keeping anyway since...you know...everything?" John said soberly.

Samantha sighed. This was what she had been afraid of: the talk. She hadn't spoken to John since that day he discovered she had been using him. He told her that Sherlock had filled him in on everything but he and Samantha had yet to properly talk it out. She had taken advantage of him when he was in a place of vulnerability and she had deeply hurt him. Now she would be asked questions she didn't want to answer, but she knew she had to if she were to gain John's complete trust again.

"I'm still adjusting," she said, continuing to chop, "I've never been...settled before so this all just feels...weird."

"Have you found a job at all?" asked John.

"Mycroft offered me work but I'm taking some time off for the moment. I need to distance myself from the agency before I'm ready to jump back into that line of work again."

"I understand. I think."

Another silence fell between them. Samantha finished chopping and scooped the onion into a bowl. She paused then, leaning with her palms against the counter top.

"John," she said, her head down, "I'm sorry."

"I know," John said kindly.

Samantha gave a terse nod and began to dice a stalk of celery.

"Moriarty has a way of getting to people," he continued.

Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of that name.

"Did you know he strapped a bomb to me?"

She felt that was a dig at her expense.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," she said.

Another pause. Samantha was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She hoped this wasn't going to be the atmosphere for the rest of the evening.

"What was he to you?" asked John.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you love him?"

The knife slipped and blood pooled to the surface of her finger where it had been cut. She swore and rushed to the sink to run her finger under the cold tap.

"Oh god, are you alright?" said John. He pulled a first aid kit from one of the cupboards and rooted around inside it.

"It's just a cut," she replied.

"Well let me have a look. I am a doctor you know." He gave a weak smile. Samantha held out her hand to him and allowed him to examine her injury.

"That looks sore," he said with a mild grimace, "Nothing too serious though. I can dress it for you."

She watched as he carefully dried her hand and applied disinfectant to the cut.

"I should be honest with you, John," she said suddenly, "This isn't easy for me to talk about but I value your trust more than anything else. And I don't want to lie to you anymore." She took a breath as if collecting the words she was going to say next. "When I was first...involved with Moriarty...things were different then. I...contributed to his plan to bring down Sherlock. I'm not proud. He exploited a weakness of mine and used me for his own gain."

"He does that," John murmured.

"I slept with him."

"I know. I've seen the... recording from 221C." John cleared his throat and kept his head down as he wound a bandage around her finger. Samantha could feel heat flood to her cheeks as she recalled that moment when Moriarty kissed her. That it had been recorded by a spy cam and seen by Mycroft, Sherlock and John, that they had seen her kiss him back and lead him to the bedroom, drove a feeling of shame to the pit of her stomach.

"So what was it between you and him?" John asked, "And I'm not trying to be nosey or looking for gossip or anything. I just want to believe that you would never put him before myself or Sherlock."

"John, it was a silly schoolgirl romance," she replied, "It was just chemistry. It was just sex. At least..." She shook her head and looked away. "At least that's what I try to tell myself. I keep asking what if, you know? What if he wasn't a deranged master criminal? What if we had met under normal circumstances like at a social gathering or a bar or whatever it is that's normal these days? Would we still have hit it off? Would we be dating? Would we-?" She gave a snort. "I don't even know what normal is! Of course I let myself get in too deep with the world's most dangerous man."

She glanced at John then who was studying her intensely. She couldn't determine his expression. Was he angry? Pitying? She realised then that he had finished dressing her cut a while ago and had been holding her hand this whole time. She withdrew from him, feeling undeserving of any kindness.

"You should talk to someone," John said compassionately, "Professionally I mean." He wasn't angry. He just wanted to understand.

"I'll...consider it," Samantha replied. Another silence fell between them but this time it was less uncomfortable. "I'm pretty hungry," she said after a time.

John gave a small warm smile.

"Well, how about we postpone the cooking lesson for now?" He said, "gotta let that finger rest you know. How does beans on toast sound instead?"

"With wine?" Samantha ventured.

"Oh god yes."

They both laughed a silly, awkward, childish laugh, but Samantha knew it meant that they were OK again.


	4. Rise Again

Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean,

Present Day

A wide Japanese man in a suit stood solemnly by the cockpit door. He had a large square jaw and a severe haircut. Hints of Yakuza tattoos poked out from beneath his collar and cuffs. Nika had been maintaining eye contact with him for a while now. She could tell that he remembered her from when he almost foiled her plan to blow up his boss' casino. How he survived the explosion unscathed she wasn't sure but she knew he wasn't happy with her. She smiled sweetly at him until he was uncomfortable enough to look away.

Moriarty, who was sitting opposite, glanced over his shoulder at the man.

"Friend of yours?" He queried, returning his attention to his phone again.

"We have history," Nika replied.

"Yes, it seems you have quite the history."

Here we go, she thought. Nika sighed and gave him a look.

"Don't," she said.

"Don't what?"

"Look, you knew my history before you hired me. You knew I had potential baggage. And I'm sorry this is your problem since everything went to shit for you but we need to deal with this and I need you to focus."

"I am focused."

"You haven't been the same since I pulled you out of that prison wagon."

"Yes well it hasn't exactly been sunshine and rainbows the past year."

"That's not quite what I-" she stopped, thought for a moment and tried again. "I hear you say her name in your sleep."

"Who's?"

"Oh come on!" she snapped, "You know exactly who I'm talking about."

He was silent, keeping his gaze to the phone, though it was obvious he was no longer reading anything. Nika observed him for a moment, contemplating what to say next. He was never one for sharing personal matters and he often iced her out if she said the wrong thing. She had to choose her words carefully or risk killing the conversation entirely.

"Just tell me something," she said, trying to sound reasonable, "Can she be used to exploit you? Is she a weakness?"

"Ms. Abramovich, if you ever remotely dare insinuate something like to me again I swear I will grind your bones to make my bread."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I," he retorted, his wide black eyes glaring up at her.

She shook her head in exasperation. The money was too good to leave, but he was becoming too difficult to work with. Had she not been contractually tethered to be his 24/7 bodyguard she would have taken this plane by herself and ended her personal issue her own way. Though, she reasoned, her way may not exactly be the right way and that was another problem she had; she had become too reliant on his dependency of her for her own survival. Their working relationship had become desperately symbiotic.

"So what's your plan then?" she sighed, in an effort to quell his dark mood.

"I don't know. Give them money. Go home."

"That's it?"

"What you said. Reason with them."

"What if it doesn't work? What if they kill us?"

"They won't kill us in broad daylight in a public place. If they don't accept payment we'll offer some service. Your life can't be worth that much if they sent an amateur to assassinate you."

"Was that an insult?"

"Oh Nika," he doted, "Take comfort in the fact that I haven't killed you yet."

She considered the number of his employees she had put down in the past, mostly people who had either betrayed him or were no longer of use. She wondered if she too had an expiration date.

"What then?" she pushed, "Will the beach house be safe to go back to?"

In Russian he said, "Then I'm going to start recruiting again. Starting with any eligible Yakuza members."

She glanced up at the large man who seemed to be listening in on their conversation. She smirked. This was the Moriarty she knew and respected.

"You think it's the right time?" she said, "I thought you were going to wait until the heat died down."

"I've come to the conclusion that it will never be the right time," he responded, tucking his phone into his pocket, "And I'm bored and tired. Tired of running, tired of hiding. I was unstoppable once. I'll rise again. Even if it means getting caught on the way. I can't live like a coward anymore."

"I've never known you to be a coward," Nika assured.

Moriarty huffed with a laconic smile and rolled his head to the side to look out the window. It was still light out but they had been travelling for what seemed like a lifetime.

"How much longer until we land?" he said.

"Five hours I think."

"Fine. I'm getting some sleep. Try not to let any of these mobsters kill me in the meantime."

He shut his eyes and relaxed against the headrest.

"I'm going to kick you every time you say her name," Nika said.

"No you won't," Moriarty threatened.


	5. The Precondition

London, Great Britain

11 months ago

Samantha waited in silent agitation as Dr. Matheson read her file from behind his desk. His expression was that of deep concentration. His thick black eyebrows knitted together, his small eyes squinting behind large brown rimmed glasses. Samantha didn't want to be here but she wanted to work and this was the precondition Mycroft had set. She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair impatiently. The longer she had to wait, the more she feared she would fail the psych evaluation.

After a moment, Dr. Matheson closed over the files and turned to the computer on his desk.

"OK, Ms. Cole-"

"Samantha."

"I'm just going to ask a few questions to get us started. Is that OK?" His voice was deep and tinged with an American accent.

"Um...sure." Samantha nodded.

"How are you sleeping?"

Ah. This was familiar. She used to take these kinds of tests with the agency. It was how they monitored their agents' mental state between missions. This may not be as bad as she thought.

"Fine?" She said with a shrug.

"No frequent waking, tossing or turning, or disruptive dreams?"

"Nope." There was a few seconds of silence while the doctor typed on his keyboard.

"Do you have a regular sleep pattern?" He asked then, glancing at her from over the top of his glasses.

She thought for a moment.

"I guess," she said uncertainly, "I mean I try. I'm usually up at seven for the gym so I try to get to bed early enough. Takes me a little while to fall asleep though."

"Why is that?" His questions were strangely methodical, as if he were reciting from memory.

"I don't know," she replied truthfully, "Maybe I haven't quite settled into London yet."

"Mhm. And how often do you go to the gym?"

"Four to five times a week maybe. Why?"

"A lot of people turn to exercise to relieve stress. Are you stressed, Ms. Cole?"

Samantha was starting to pick up on the angle the psychologist was going for and decided she had to be careful with what she said to him.

"No," she said, "Just bored. I want to work."

Dr. Matheson didn't react to her response but instead continued to type.

"Have you been participating in any other extra curricular activities?" He asked.

"Umm..." She gave a small smile, "yeah. I started a cooking class with a friend."

"Do you have many friends in London?"

"No. Just the one."

"Are you currently in a relationship?"

"No."

The way Dr. Matheson glanced at her just then made her realise that she perhaps responded a little too quickly. Samantha dropped her gaze to the grey carpet, blushing hotly.

"Have you experienced any trauma over the last few years?" He asked then.

Immediately images of Paolo flashed in her mind. She could hear the heavy thwack of a baton collide against his skull, she could feel the suffocating depths of the lake he had been plunged into. Any moments of Paolo in distress replayed in her head in vivid technicolour. Moriarty's games she could deal with, torture she was numb to, losing the agency was nothing. Her weakness was the person she cared for most and she had often questioned the decisions she had made on behalf of his well-being. Would she make those decisions again? What if something happened to John? Would she be so easily compromised now as she had been back then?

"No," she decided to say. She didn't want to give away anything that could relegate her to a desk job.

The doctor frowned, straightened his glasses and leafed through her files again.

"So being a victim of manipulation, being held against your will, tortured and witnessing the imprisonment and torture of a comrade doesn't register as traumatic to you?"

Samantha inhaled slowly, choosing her next words carefully.

"It's...um...all in a day's work I guess," she said.

Matheson gave her a look, seemingly unconvinced. Samantha stared back, her defiance unwavering.

After a moment the doctor removed his glasses smoothed the grey hair that tufted from behind his ears and said, "Tell me about Moriarty."

Her body tensed. This was it. This was what would catch her out. Mycroft not once breathed a word about Moriarty to her since his capture, but Samantha was under no illusion that he wasn't curious about her relationship with him.

She glanced at the clock on the wall to her right. She still had forty minutes to kill in this session. How much of that time could she waste by stalling?

"He's locked up," she responded. Dr. Matheson paused. That was probably not the answer he was fishing for.

"And how does the make you feel?" He said.

"Relieved."

"Why?"

Samantha sighed, growing weary of the tedious questions.

"Because he can't hurt anyone anymore," she said.

"Has he hurt you?"

Samantha didn't expect the tightness in her chest that gripped her just then. She clenched her hands together, her gaze down to the side as she tried to think of a response.

"This is a safe space, Samantha," the doctor said, suddenly dropping any formality, "What you say here stays within these walls. You have complete confidentiality."

"Do you not report back to Mycroft?" Samantha asked.

"He will receive a report on your well-being which will determine you eligibility for work. The details you share will remain private."

Samantha hesitated, still reluctant to even think about the initial question.

"How has he hurt you?" he asked then.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She knew then that her guard had been cracked.

"I guess in a lot of ways," she spoke quietly, "He uh...used me, manipulated me, blackmailed me." Tears pooled in her eyes. "Held me, kissed me, made love to me." A memory of her time with him resurfaced just then. She was back at the country house and he had just returned after disappearing for days. She met him in the hallway as he sauntered through the front door. Before she could breathe a word his mouth was on hers. She was pushed against the wall, his fingers in her hair and his other arm holding her body tightly against his. Her instinct to protest had quickly dissipated. She had never felt so desired as she did then.

"It's pathetic, isn't it?" she declared, "That after all he has done I still think about him that way."

"You've had relationships before?" Matheson queried.

"Well... I've been with other people. I've had crushes and brief romances but none I would call a relationship."

"So what makes Moriarty different?"

"It just..." she threw her hands up, searching for an answer, "felt more...real."

She realised Dr. Matheson was peering at her, not out of judgement but out of concern.

"OK," he said as scribbled something on a notepad, "I'm going to make a deal with you. I'll give Mycroft the green light to put you in field work if you see me here for an hour once a month"

"What? Why?" She snorted.

"You have issues with interpersonal relationships that you need to work on. And while you've been...coping up to now, I'd be concerned about your well-being if you don't confront this issue while you can."

Right. Samantha had always been discouraged from interpersonal relationships. Caring about someone made an agent vulnerable. Paolo was proof of that. Moriarty was the only other person she got in too deep with and it was to her detriment.

She sighed. Once a month didn't sound so bad if it meant she could work again.

"Alright," she said, "It's a deal


	6. The Diplomat and The Soldier

_**Author's note: This chapter was either going to be too long or too short. I had too much I wanted to say so I had to sacrifice the original structure a bit. So critique is welcome.**_

 _ **On another note, thanks to all my readers and reviewers! I hope you enjoy the story. And for those wondering, the two timelines will converge soon ;)**_

Osaka, Japan

Present day

It was late in the evening by the time they had reached Osaka. They're first priority was accommodation and at short notice they had to settle for a cheap hotel for the night. Jirou, who still feared for his life, stayed with them and Moriarty begrudgingly paid for his room.

He couldn't sleep that night. The jetlag and the confines of his dreary hotel room left him too irritable to relax. He decided to stretch his legs and navigate the hotel's fire exit up to the roof.

The view of Osaka was impressive. The stretch of city combined with the cool night air calmed his mind a little. He was reminded of the last time he was on top of a multi story building... He strolled to the edge and peered down at the street below. How would it feel to jump? He imagined free falling, the upward force of wind taking his breath before slamming against the concrete. Would he feel the pain; his skull cracked open and his ribs crushed and puncturing his lungs? Or would he be dead before his mind could register it all? It would only take one small step to find out. One small...

 _Too easy_.

His ego interjected his morbid thoughts as usual. It was probably the only thing keeping him alive these days. Too often he thought about ending it but he wouldn't do it like this, not disgraced. Blaze of glory. That's what he promised himself.

"You going to jump this time?" came Nika's voice from the stairwell.

"Thinking about it," he replied with a grim smirk, his eyes still on the street below.

"You think you could hold off until we solve this thing?"

"I suppose," he sighed drearily. She appeared at his peripheral.

"What's wrong?" she said, more serious now.

His gaze shot to her then as if he had just been snapped out of a daydream. He brought his palms to his face and rubbed his eyes.

"Nothing," he said, "Tired, jetlagged, but other than that I'm fine." His arms dropped to his sides again and he realised that she was peering at him with concern in her expression. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to change her mind. She took him loosely by the hand and said, "Let's go back inside." As she turned to lead him towards the stairs he gripped her hand and pulled her close so that they met in a kiss. Her concern wasn't entirely unwarranted and right now he sought comfort in physical contact. Though their relationship was mainly professional, they weren't adverse to the occasional romp in a bid to alleviate boredom or frustration. So it was to his surprise that the cold and callous Russian assassin responded with emotion. Her breath hitched in her throat and she clutched his hand tightly. Something was wrong. He reassessed her behaviour from when they left New Zealand. Her constant probing about him, it wasn't out of concern for his well-being, it was for reassurance of her own. She was scared. She had lost faith in his ability to not only maintain her employment but to also keep her alive. And he knew there weren't many places she could run where she wasn't wanted dead. When his most loyal client was starting to doubt him, he knew it meant his reputation had taken a serious blow.

Nika broke away then, paused a moment and said, "Let's go back inside."

* * *

"Get up!"

Moriarty woke when something soft hit him in the face. He sat up brusquely and realised that Nika had thrown a pillow at him. It was morning now and Nika was wriggling into her jeans.

"Did you sleep here last night?" he queried, a wry expression on his face, "Did I actually pay for a room you never used?" He could probably count on one hand the number of times he and Nika had sex, but not once did she stick around for very long afterwards.

"Get dressed," she commanded, "We're going to be late." He noted that she had just showered as she twined her wet hair into her trademark French braid. She seemed more herself today compared to last night; cold, efficient, to the point - traits Moriarty had always admired her for. He too felt he had shaken off the depressive state he had been in. The wonders a shag and a decent night's sleep could do for one's disposition.

"Where the fuck are my clothes?" she cried in frustration. Moriarty watched with amusement as she, topless and missing one sock, bustled around the room, pulling furniture and tossing bed sheets in search for her things.

"Is this yours?" he said, yanking a t-shirt that was draped over the headboard. Nika snatched the garment impetuously but not without a brief expression of gratitude. Once she was fully clothed she made her way to the door.

"Get dressed," she said again, "I'll meet you in the lobby."

Shortly after, he found both Nika and Jirou in the hotel lobby. Jirou explained that a meeting had been arranged in a public place as Moriarty had requested, and that a chauffeur was waiting for them outside.

Moriarty brought his face close to Jirou's, his eyes wide, and said, "If you're lying or if this is a trap, I'll use your skin as a rug. Understood?"

The Yakuza cadette nodded fervently.

"Lead the way then," said Moriarty.

As they followed Jirou toward the exit, Nika in Russian said, "I don't know why we're OK with the runt hanging around."

"I was thinking of keeping him," Moriarty replied cheerfully.

"Are you serious?"

"Sure! A strapping young lad like that is full of potential."

Nika gave him a look. "He tried to kill me with a pocket knife," she said deadpan.

"So he's a little inexperienced. He's young, malleable, eager to please. Fill his head with delusions of grandeur and earning his loyalty will be easy. The competency can come later."

"If at all," she muttered.

"He'll have a decent tutor I'm sure," he replied, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She faltered at the implication.

They stopped just outside the hotel where a black car was parked. Holding the back door open was the large man from the plane. Moriarty straightened his tie and slicked back his hair with one hand.

"Right," he said with some enthusiasm, "let's not keep the Yakuza waiting."

* * *

Moriarty wasn't sure what he was expecting from a meeting point but doilies, chandeliers and bone China definitely surprised him. The café they were invited to seemed to be... western inspired and heavily featured what appeared to be the car boot sale dregs of Victorian décor.

They were escorted to a six seater table. The chauffeur, who never introduced himself, sat next to two empty seats opposite Moriarty, Nika and Jirou.

"Tatsumi will arrive shortly," was all he said.

Nika leaned towards Moriarty's ear and whispered, "Tatsumi is head of the chapter here. I heard he's really difficult to negotiate with."

 _So don't fuck this up_ , was the implication he detected from her.

"I got this," he replied smoothly as he directed his attention to the menu before him. The menu was strange, evidently western inspired, but looked like it was put together by someone who only had a vague idea of what western dishes were supposed to be. His eye was drawn to the Irish breakfast tea. The price was extortionate, but he had been on this side of the planet for so long he had forgotten what a decent cup of tea tasted like and would pay anything for one right now.

He suddenly became very aware of the shift of atmosphere just then. The bustling ambient sounds of chatter and cutlery had silenced. He looked up to see that the rest of the café had emptied. Two people, a woman and a man, approached their table and both sat at the remaining places.

"I would apologise for the delay but I am not entirely sure what I am doing here so let's just make this quick," the woman said removing her black trenchcoat.

Moriarty hesitated and glanced at Nika who just shrugged.

"I'm sorry" he said uncertainly, "We were expecting an audience with Tatsumi."

"Yes," the woman replied, and it then dawned on him that she was actually Tatsumi.

"Forgive me. I just wasn't expecting-"

"A woman?" She snapped.

Moriarty gave a small smile. Ah. A female leader worn down by patriarchal structures. He tucked away that mental note for when he may need it.

"Someone so young," he concluded. She couldn't have been much older than twenty-five.

"Yes well you were probably thinking of my father, Makoto Tatsumi. He is dead" the woman sighed irritably, "I am Rin. I was appointed oyabun in my father's place in accordance to his will. This is my twin, Arata, second in command." She gestured to the young man who arrived with her.

Twins. Moriarty hadn't noticed until she said so. They both had the same wide set eyes, with chocolate irises hooded beneath a smooth curve. They had the same heart-shaped face and full-shaped lips. Rin's hair was gathered tightly from her scalp by a clip at the nape of her neck, the ends tassling up from beneath it. A pair of loose locks cascaded from the front of her hair to just passed her chin, framing her face neatly. Arata had thick hair, cut closely at the back and coiffed stylishly at the front.

"And you are?" Rin asked. She fumbled in her purse for a moment before proceeding to light a cigarette.

"Jim Moriarty," he said with a frown, "And not to sound impetuous but I would have thought the leader of a Yakuza clan would have done her homework before agreeing to a meeting."

"I am giving you the opportunity to convince me that I am not wasting my time right now," she quipped, her expression dark, "You should be grateful. Now, what is all of this about?"

Moriarty sat back in his seat, maintaining eye contact with Rin. She was going to be difficult.

"I understand that my associate, Nika Abramovich, is on your hit list," he began, "I'm willing to pay for the damages she has caused if you remove her name from that list."

"And can she not speak on her own behalf?" Rin addressed Nika.

"I am not much for the talking," she responded.

Rin smiled knowingly as she inhaled from her cigarette.

"Ah," she said in a plume of bluey-grey smoke, "I understand. You are the diplomat..." - she pointed at Moriarty - "and you are the soldier."

Jirou cleared his throat just then.

"Oh, and your boy, Jirou, should be spared in spite of failing his task to assassinate her," Moriarty added.

"Tutututut! Jirou!" Rin scolded. She spoke at him in Japanese, her tone condescending. Moriarty tried to translate. Something along the lines of "I told you so" and "you're not cut out for this". Jirou was looking down at his lap in shame.

"I am sorry about him," she said to Moriarty then, "We went to school together. When he heard about my father's title he insisted on becoming a member."

Moriarty made a noise of feigned interest has he retrieved his cheque book from inside his suit jacket.

"Well I don't want to waste any more of your time," he said, scribbling a figure down, "I'm sure this will more than cover whatever it is we owe you." He ripped the cheque out and slid it across the table towards Rin. She raised an eyebrow and slid the paper back to him without so much as looking at it.

"I do not want this," she said as if offended, "I don't know what it is with men who think they can solve everything with money or violence."

"What would Nika's life be worth for you then?" Moriarty sighed. He briefly glanced at Nika who was glaring intensely at Rin.

"Nothing," Rin replied, "If we really wanted her dead we would not have sent Jirou. You made a mistake coming here, Moriarty-san. You could have killed Jirou and none of us would have pursued you." She took a long drag from her cigarette before continuing. "But I see she is worth a lot you. And you, Moriarty-san, I've heard whispers about you and what you can do. I think you could be of use to us... Now that we have leverage over you."

Moriarty's jaw clenched. A mistake. He made a mistake. God, he really was slipping. He took the cheque back and tore it up.

"Fine," he sighed dramatically, "Exploiting a charitable man. Shame on you. Let's get this over with. What do you want?"

Rin smiled and shared a quip in Japanese to her brother: "I like him."


	7. Normal

_**Author's note: So...rating went up... This chapter is a little short but I'm finally done with the setup and can start moving things forward. So stay tuned for the next installment ;)**_

London, Great Britain

Five months ago

Samantha gripped the headboard tightly. She was close, so close. Tension began to build between her legs, her muscles spasming with each sensation. She shut her eyes and waited to be taken over the edge... Almost there... Almost there...

Suddenly, intrusively, Moriarty appeared in her mind's eye: perfectly groomed, brown eyes piercing hers, closing in for a kiss...

 _No!_

She shook him out, frustrated with herself for allowing him to get into her head again. It had been a while since she had such an invasive thought. She was doing so well. This had been her first sexual experience since Moriarty and she was annoyed - _angry_ \- that he still had this hold over her.

The sensation between her legs quelled and her partner resurfaced from beneath the duvet.

"What's wrong?" she asked, obviously sensing Samantha's sudden lack of enthusiasm.

"Nothing, Betty," she said running her finger's through her partner's ink black hair, "You probably just wore me out last night is all." Betty seemed unconvinced but she nonetheless smiled and pulled herself up towards the pillow so that she was now lying beside her.

"I guess you'll just have to learn to keep up with me then, huh?" she said, kissing Samantha's shoulder.

Samantha couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. She had met someone she liked for the first time since moving to London, someone she thought she could have a good thing with, and yet she thought about someone else the first time they slept together. What the hell was wrong with her?

"We can just...chill out if you want," Betty said, seemingly picking up on her preoccupation.

Samantha gave a half hearted smile, wrapped her arm around the woman and held her close. She enjoyed her time spent with Betty and though this was their first time together she already feared she was screwing it up.

"So what's Betty short for anyway?" she asked, eager to keep her mind from pessimistic thoughts, "Elizabeth?"

"Betina," she sighed, "My parents were old school."

"Betina Darling," Samantha tested with some mirth,"Catchy. Sounds posh."

Betty's style was mildly inspired by 90's grunge so 'posh' was something she was far from. Considering Samantha's previous romance maybe she was trying to avoid posh.

"Stop laughing," said Betty.

"I'm not laughing."

"You so are!"

Betty sprang on her then wrestling her arms until Samantha gave in and was pinned to the pillow. She swooped down to kiss her - a soft lingering kiss - and Samantha felt her guilt and anxiety wash away. Betty deepened the kissed and moved her hands up so that her finger's interlocked with Samantha's. Normal. This is what normal is like.

Somewhere from beneath the layers of garments, that had been strewn around the room in last night's passion, a phone rang. The ringtone caused Samantha to groan. It was Mycroft.

"Leave it," Betty said, tracing kisses down Samantha's jawline.

"I have to get this," she said apologetically.

"Nuh uh." The kissing reached her neck.

"It's my boss," she sighed, feeling the desire to push Mycroft off a bridge right now.

"Nope," Betty responded, "I finally get you to myself. I'm not letting you get away so easy."

Something crossed Samantha's mind then and she pulled away. Betty retreated slightly, concern evident in her big blue eyes.

"Betty," Samantha sighed, "I really like you but I'm not exactly looking for a serious relationship right now."

Betty withdrew entirely, vexation painting her face. The phone continued to ring.

"When did I ever give you the impression that I wanted a serious relationship?" she said.

Crap.

"Betty, no that's not what I-"

"OK, fine I get it," she sighed, "If you wanted me gone you should have just said so. You didn't have to make up such bullshit." She slid out of bed and began to dress.

"Betty, I don't-"

"I said it's fine! We haven't known each other that long and I came on to strongly. It's OK. It's my fault."

The quiver in Betty's voice indicated that she was hurt. What happened? How did this go so badly so fast? Samantha tried to say something but as usual her inability to accept that she had hurt someone had rendered her speechless.

"Answer your damn phone," Betty said, gathering her things, "I'll see myself out." She left brusquely without so much as a goodbye.

Samantha was stunned for a moment. What just happened? Where did she go wrong? The phone was still ringing. Frustrated, Samantha sprang out of bed and dug through the array of clothing on the floor until she found her phone in her jeans pocket.

"What!?" she snapped when she answered.

"My, you are grumpy in the morning," came Mycroft's voice.

"Sorry," Samantha sighed. She ran a hand through her hair and sat at the edge of the bed. "You just caught me at a bad time."

"I hope that doesn't mean you're not up for work. Because I have a job for you if you're willing to take it."

"Yes," she responded quickly, "God yes. I'm going out of my mind not working." She needed a break from normal. It seemed like she wasn't at all good at it.

"Excellent! Come meet me at my office to discuss details. I'll have someone pick you up in an hour." With that he hung up.

OK. Work. Good. Maybe her day can be better from here. She looked at her phone, tempted to text Betty. What would she say? Should she apologise? She didn't even know what to apologise for. She couldn't understand Betty's reaction at all. Maybe it was best to not make things worse. She decided to dial a different number instead.

"Hello, Dr. Matheson speaking," came the receiving voice.

"Hey, Doc, it's me," said Samantha, "Do you have room in your schedule to pencil me in this evening?"

"What happened?" Dr. Matheson's voice drawled.

"I...think I screwed up."


	8. Surprise

Osaka, Japan

Present day

"So Tatsumi was murdered," said Nika, bringing a martini to her lips.

"Correct," Moriarty replied, scanning the bar. It was late in the night and the hotel had quietened down since they had arrived.

"And the daughter automatically inherited his Yakuza title."

"Yep!"

There was an expectant pause.

"Don't you think there's a two and two to put together here?" Nika stated bluntly.

He gave her a look. She had been prickly since their meeting with the Tatsumi twins yesterday morning. It was understandable. She thought they would be leaving Osaka tonight having squared everything with the Yakuza but she ended up with an even tighter noose around her neck instead. She had already vented her frustration at Moriarty, so much so that he reckoned he was now fluent in Russian profanities. But her real anger was with Rin Tatsumi and she was looking for any excuse to throw her under the bus.

"You mean did Tatsumi's own daughter kill him to take over the business herself? Yes, it had crossed my mind," Moriarty replied.

"Then why are we here?"

" _I'm a little disappointed in you, Moriarty-san_ ," Rin had said the morning of their rendezvous, " _You're not as impressive as the rumours made you out to be_." That had been the second jab at his status and while he considered himself above condescending remarks, Rin had gotten under his skin like she had gotten under Nika's. In his agreement to ally with the Yakuza he decided to himself that in the end he would either work with Rin or take her down, whatever it took to prove himself.

"Rin said her father's room was ransacked the night he was murdered, but nothing was taken," he said, "She suspects that whatever they were looking for is still somewhere in that room. She hasn't been able to find it and she doesn't trust a whole lot of people in Osaka right now."

Nika seemed to think for a moment.

"So if the killer is Rin, she doesn't want to risk giving herself away," she speculated, "If not, she doesn't want to risk losing something of potential value to her."

"See? Not just guns and explosions. You can be smart if you just apply yourself."

Nika rolled her eyes and took another drink.

"And obviously sending someone who's not involved in all the gangland politics suits Rin to the ground," he continued, "Which is why we're here. Nice frock by the way."

The hotel was a five star and only people of a high enough class were deemed worthy of its accommodation.

" _Dress prettily_ ," Rin had advised.

"Thanks," Nika snorted with a hint of disgust, "It was the only thing that would fit me. Japanese women are tiny."

The dress was an ice-blue colour, made of a synthetic fabric that shimmered in certain light. It cut straight across her bust and stopped just above her knees, accentuating her long legs. Femininity was an effort Nika had little time for but nonetheless the look suited her.

"Nice suit," she then remarked.

Moriarty smirked.

"Oh yes," he said, tugging on his cuffs, "Say what you like about the Japanese, they know how to suit up."

A brief expression of mirth crossed Nika's features, the most he had seen from her in days.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked then.

"Oh I'm just making it it up as I go," he replied, "But I don't plan to stick around here for long. As westerners we somewhat stick out like a sore thumb and it would only be a matter of time before international security or whoever is tipped off about our whereabouts."

"Reassuring as ever," Nika sighed.

Moriarty glanced around the lounge again. It was quiet. The few patrons that were present were keeping to themselves. He assessed that there was minimal risk of being stalked or followed.

"We should make a move," he said. He paid the bar tab with the American Express given to him by Rin in order to maintain his cover. Nika drained her martini glass and stood. She was a tall woman but in her heels she towered over Moriarty.

"Shall we?" he said, extending his elbow and with another roll of her eyes she looped her arm through his.

"Cheer up, darling," he cooed, "We're supposed to be on holiday."

"This is not my idea of a holiday," she drawled as they strolled toward the closest elevator, "A cabin by a fresh stream, miles from civilisation: that's a holiday."

"You never struck me as the outdoors type."

"I'm just sick of people."

"You and me both," he muttered, pressing the elevator button to the top floor. As the doors shut and the brief moment of weightlessness kicked in, Moriarty checked for the keycard in his pocket. While the suite it unlocked belonged to Tatsumi, Rin had arranged for the room to be booked under the false identities Moriarty and Nika had assumed for their cover. The room hadn't been used since the murder but it had been refurbished after forensics were done with it. Moriarty wasn't sure if that meant whatever he was looking for could still be found or not. Nonetheless, he was happy to be doing something other than just hiding, even if it wasn't entirely of his choosing.

The elevator came to a halt and they stepped into the long hallway. Moriarty made note of the security cameras in the ceiling and tried to keep his head down while following the signs to the suite.

"I hope they don't expect us to stay the night," Nika muttered.

"You know you've just gone and hurt my feelings," he said, feigning dejection, "I was good enough for you the other night."

"Please don't remind me. I didn't even have the excuse of alcohol."

Moriarty's mouth quirked upwards with amusement.

They stopped when they arrived outside the suite. Moriarty slid the keycard into the reader until a green light indicated it was unlocked. When he opened the door, he paused. At first he wasn't sure what he was seeing, then he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real. He hadn't been drinking, he wasn't sleep deprived - for once. His brain tried to rationalise the scene but no, she was actually there standing in the room, green eyes wide with shock. There was a long moment in which they both regarded each other with utter surprise. And it then with that, Samantha threw a gun up before her and yelled, "Freeze!"


	9. Reunion

_**Author's Note: Thanks for all the follows and reviews. I hope to update more frequently soon. Thank for your patience.**_

Tokyo, Japan

One week ago

The name on Samantha's passport was Anara Kalpar. She was a Muslim British national abroad on business. At least that's what the poor man before her believed before she started to make him feel very uncomfortable.

"Mr. Ishikawa," she said, locking her fingers together, "It is in both our best interests to inform me of your employer's whereabouts. The HSBC avoids a huge media scandal over money laundering and you don't go to jail for conspiracy to commit fraud."

Ishikawa, a jowly pentagenarian man with silver hair, glared back at her through large glasses.

"I already told you, Ms. Kalpar," he replied, his voice unsteady, "We are investors here. We invest in offshore companies. There is no fraud. I can show you the books."

"The books have been proven to be fraudulent. My people have been very thorough. Now, I'll ask you again. All I need is a name. Or an address. Maybe a contact number? Anything that will point me in the right direction will do."

"You are wasting your time," the man replied indignantly, "and mine. Now leave before I call security."

"I just find it hard to believe that someone from a tech hub like Tokyo would invest in a software company in London-"

"I said leave, Ms. Kalpar."

Samantha stilled. She did not fly 6,000 miles just to be shown the door.

"Who will look after your wife and son while you're in prison, Mr. Ishikawa?" she said soberly.

The man shot her a steely glare.

"Don't you dare bring my family into this," he growled.

Samantha fumbled in her purse and pulled out her phone. She tapped an unnamed contact and held the screen up so that Ishikawa could see.

"Well it's up to you," she reasoned, "You can cooperate or I can have you dragged out of this building in handcuffs."

"Is that so? And what gives you such authority?" Ishikawa chuckled dryly.

"British intelligence."

His smile waned suddenly.

"Window of opportunity is closing, Mr. Ishikawa. What's it going to be?" She hovered a finger over the green call button threateningly. "Three...two..."

"OK, OK!"

Samantha lowered her hands. Got him. The man paused for a moment as if reconsidering his decision. He then rummaged in his desk and began to scribble something with a pen and paper.

"This is all I can give you," he said as he slid the paper across to Samantha. Samantha took it and read the inscription which was written in Latin alpha-numeric rather than Japanese characters. It was the address of a hotel in Osaka and what she assumed to be a room number.

"What is this?" she puzzled.

"Inside that room is a safe with the information you need," he replied quietly as if someone else might hear him, "Now go. Tell no one of this. You were never here."

"Wait, hang on," Samantha was entirely confused, "Where is this safe? Who does it belong to? How can I get inside it?"

"That is all I can tell you!" Ishikawa snapped, red faced, "I won't ask you again to leave my office!"

His eyes glistened, his hands trembled. What had him so rattled?

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Ishikawa," she said with a curt bow, "Expect me to be in touch if this doesn't lead me anywhere."

The man wouldn't dignify her with a response so she took her leave. On her way out of the building she typed the hotel address into a text message and sent it to the number issued by Mycroft. The eight hour time difference meant she probably wouldn't hear back from him for a while so she returned to the apartment she had been staying in and took the rest of the day off.

* * *

She was rudely awoken to sound of her phone ringing on the bedside locker. She groaned and took the call.

"What?" she said, half muffled in the folds of her pillow.

"Did I wake you?" came Mycroft's voice.

"It's three in the morning here," she mewled, "Have you forgotten I'm on the other side of the globe?"

"Momentarily."

Samantha sighed and sat up.

"Have you come up with anything for the info I sent you?" she yawned.

"It's interesting. That particular suite is owned by the Tatsumi family, known in Osaka to be the head of a notorious criminal gang."

Samantha straightened, more alert now with her interest piqued.

"As in Yakuza?" she breathed. "Ishikawa is in bed with the Yakuza?" No wonder he seemed so spooked when he gave her that address.

"It would seem. But I suspect that Ishikawa was a passive middle man," Mycroft mused, "The Yakuza may have struck a deal with him in order to launder their money through his business. At any rate, we still need to find the source of the money if we're going to stop it flowing into the country."

"And what if Ishikawa tips off the Yakuza that we're on to them?" Samantha wasn't sure if she was quite ready to tangle with a criminal gang. Her first job back on the field was supposed to be straight forward. Then again, she didn't want to give Mycroft the impression she couldn't handle it either.

"If he gave you information it means he thinks of you as a way out of whatever deal he has with them," he replied. "He won't tell anyone."

This relieved Samantha somewhat.

"So do you think you can get me into that room?" She asked.

"The room is not available for reservation if that's what you're getting at," Mycroft replied, "I'm afraid you're on your own with this one."

"Great."

"Don't worry. You're very resourceful. I'm sure you'll think of something."

He was implying that he had faith in her. This was reassuring.

"Right," she said, "I'll keep in touch then."

"Please do."

She ended the call and lay back down again. She was both excited and anxious about her next move. On one hand she could be entering some very dangerous territory. It had been a long time since she had to deal with criminal gangs and she wasn't sure if she was as sharp as she used to be. On the other hand she was thrilled to be back in the field. Despite her loss of confidence she was determined to bring herself back to the level she was when she was with the agency. Her mind ruminated over her next move. She would need to leave for Osaka tomorrow and then she would need a plan to get into that suite.

"I'll think of something," she said, allowing herself to sleep for now.

* * *

Samantha spent her time in Osaka observing the workings of the hotel she targeted. She took note of the staff and their roster, the security cameras, the check-ins. Curiously, the Yakuza suite remained vacant and she couldn't determine anything resembling a pattern in it's comings and goings. This could either be good or bad for her.

She shadowed a member of the cleaning staff, who was roughly her dress size, and paid meticulous attention to her movements. The cleaner appeared to carry a master key card so that she could access all the rooms. She never went near the Yakuza suite though and Samantha had to make a gamble and assume the key card worked for that room too. She always arrived at the hotel in plain clothes and changed into her uniform in the staff toilets. Samantha intercepted her on her way to work one morning. An intentional collision, a quick switching of bags, profuse apologising, and she walked away with exactly what she needed.

She arrived at the hotel the following night in full uniform, carrying a large handbag full of tools she may need. She had already become familiar with the ins and outs of the building so she found her way around easy enough. She received the occasional glance from staff who didn't recognise her as a worker but her outward confidence gave off the impression that she was supposed to be here, and so she thankfully didn't draw too much attention to herself. Samantha found the staff supplies room where the trollies and cleaning supplies were kept. The master key card she found in the bag she stole opened it. She began loading a trolly with towels, bedsheets and cleaning products and discreetly hid her handbag among them. She then headed straight for the Yakuza suite. She still had no idea what exactly she was looking for and whether or not the master key would get her into it. She didn't know what type of safe she would be dealing with either and she hoped that one of the assorted tools she brought would work.

When she arrived at the right floor she passed a room service caterer on her way. The man stopped her and asked, "What are you doing here so late?"

Samantha froze. Of course, the room cleaners worked in the morning and here she was in the dead of night with a trolly full of cleaning supplies.

"Room 405 had a wine spill," she said, the lie forming quicker than she would be aware of it, "They requested clean bedsheets."

The caterer paused for a moment but then nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. Samantha released a sigh of relief as he disappeared down the hall. She pushed onward until she reached the final room on the top floor. "Here goes nothing," she said as she slipped the master key into the card reader. One long second ticked by before the light on the reader turned green. She glanced up the empty hallway and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. To say the room was extravagant was an understatement. In all her years being bounced from one accommodation to another, she had never seen one as grand as this. She sat at the edge of the king sized bed and looked around.

"If I were a safe, where would I be?" she wondered. Her gaze fell upon the built-in wardrobe. It was a long shot but she investigated anyway. Like most hotels, this one provided a safe for clientele. It was empty however and left open with the combination unset. It was unlikely that the head of a Yakuza gang would use the run-of-the-mill hotel safe. Too easy to break into. What she was looking for would be deliberately hidden. She checked the walls for hollow spots, behind paintings and the plasma TV. She searched in drawers and cupboards and under the bed and sofa. Nothing. She stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, her frustration growing. She then noticed the expensive rug she was standing on. She stomped twice, testing the floor beneath her feet. Maybe... She rolled back the rug and to her gratitude she discovered a trap door built into the wooden floorboards. She pulled open the trapdoor by its metal ring and lo and behold a metal safe rested within. Her optimism was short lived however as she realised the safe was unlocked and empty. She sighed angrily. Did Ishikawa knowingly send her on a wild goose chase? He seemed sure that there would be something here which probably meant that someone else got here first. But who? What on earth was she stumbling into? She decided there was nothing left for her here. She would have to contact Mycroft and figure out the next plan of action. She shut the trapdoor and unfurled the rug out over it. She then returned to the trolly and searched her handbag for her phone. And then the door opened. Her heart jumped and her head snapped up to see who had caught her intruding. She blinked.

No. It couldn't be.

Moriarty stood at doorway, finely dressed in a sharp black suit. His expression painted something between surprise and loathing. Samantha's hand rested on the handle of the gun she kept in her handbag. Thinking of nothing else to do she drew the gun, aimed at Moriarty and yelled, "Freeze!"

Moriarty casually straightened his tie and disappeared back out into the hallway.

What the-?

Samantha pursued but was stopped in her tracks by a tall blonde woman in a blue dress.

"Abramovich," she breathed incredulously.

The Russian smirked, shutting the door behind her as she slipped out of her heels. Samantha's instinct was to shoot but the lack of a silencer would draw too much unwanted attention. Her hesitation cost her as Abramovich grabbed her extended wrist, twisting it painfully until she lost her grip on the gun. She quickly blocked an incoming punch with her free hand and a struggle ensued. She had forgotten how strong Abramovich was and so she had to rely on her wits rather than brute strength. Samantha did her best - deflecting, dodging, countering - but Abramovich was quite fast and Samantha's movements were restricted by the fitted hotel uniform. A sweep kick sent Samantha to the floor. She scrambled towards the trolly where her handbag was hidden. As Abramovich pinned her down she pulled the trolly sending it clattering down on top of her attacker. The handbag landed on the ground, the tools spilt out. While Abramovich gathered her bearings, Samantha wormed her way free and hurried to the handbag. She reached out to grab the wrench she had packed but it was quickly snatched up by her assailant who used to it to clatter her across the face. Samantha landed on the ground in an explosion of pain. Her vision focused and unfocused. A pair of black men's shoes appeared before her and a soft Irish accent spoke, "Restrain her."


	10. Rush

Osaka, Japan

Present Day

When Samantha came to, she was surprised to find herself in the same hotel room. She was not surprised that she was tied to a chair. She became aware of the pain in her cheekbone where she had been hit with the wrench. The swelling expanded to just beneath her eye so that it hurt to blink.

Before her, Moriarty sat up on the king sized bed. His shoes and jacket had been removed, the collar of his crisp white shirt had been loosened and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. He picked casually at a bowl of nuts while scrolling through Samantha's phone.

"You won't find anything on that," Samantha said as she tested her restraints. Her arms were tied with some sort of electrical cord, probably ripped from a lamp or something. She could probably free herself if she was persistent enough.

"I know," Moriarty piped in disappointment, "This phone is squeaky clean. You left your Facebook logged in though. It pains me to see you so disgustingly ordinary, you know. I'm almost tempted to troll your measly friends list." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and held up the screen so she could see.

"Who's this?" he queried.

It was a photo of Betty with her arm around Samantha, their foreheads touching. She had almost forgotten about that. It was taken by a friend of Betty on one of their first night's out together. She wasn't tagged which meant Moriarty had gone through the effort of digging through her connections.

"Why? You looking to dump her in a lake?" Samantha muttered, twisting her wrists in attempt to loosen her restraints.

Moriarty grinned and pocketed the phone.

"Oh I see," he said, "This is a revenge story. You're here to...kill me? Torture me? Lecture me to death about how I'm a bad person?"

"What?" Samantha frowned.

"Oh come on." Moriarty stood and stepped toward her. "Of all the gin joints in all the world. You can't honestly expect me to believe that you being here at this exact time is a coincidence."

Samantha's mind raced. She had thought that Moriarty was locked up. Did Mycroft know he walked free? If he did, why wouldn't he have told her? Was Moriarty somehow involved in the money laundering scandal that led her here?

Moriarty crouched to her level. He studied her face for a moment, his dark eyes flitting back and forth with scepticism. "Who are you working for?" he said, deadpan.

"I'm a cleaner. Can't you tell?" Samantha nodded at the uniform she wore.

"You normally clean with a gun, do you?"

"We can work with difficult people sometimes. Speaking of which, where's your guard dog?" Samantha glanced around for the Russian woman.

"She got bored, probably went clubbing somewhere," Moriarty shrugged, "Who are you working for?"

"I'm self employed," Samantha stated.

"Who are you working for?"

"Goldman Sachs."

"Who. Are you. Working for?"

"Honestly, would you believe me if I told you?" Samantha sighed, "You could have your minion work me over and you'd still be hard to convince."

"Oh don't worry. I know torture is wasted on you." He reached out and to Samantha's alarm began to unbutton her blouse from the bottom up.

"What are you-?"

He stopped about halfway up and reached inside, revealing her skin with one hand.

"Interesting," he murmured as he brushed his thumb along the pink scar that was once the tatooed identification number given to her by her ex-employer. Her skin prickled at his touch and her ears burned. His hand rested on her waist for a moment as he gazed intently at her.

"You're not here for me at all, are you?" he uttered.

"Get your hand off me," she demanded, staring him down. He used to touch her like this when they were together. She knew he was trying to throw her off guard.

"Where is it?" He whispered.

"Where's what?"

"Whatever you came here for. Where is it?"

"I don't have it," Samantha sighed, seeing futility in lying.

He ran his hands over her body, more methodically now, frisking her. When his search came up with nothing he stood up and searched through the cleaning trolley and her handbag. Samantha tugged at her restraints more urgently now that his back was turned. She started to feel the cords loosen slightly.

"Where is it?" he asked again, his temper seeping through the cracks of his composure.

"I told you I don't have it," she insisted, "Why would I lie to you?"

"Because that's what you do!" He yelled, his eyes wide with fury, "You lie and you cheat and you stab me in the back over and over and over! It's what you do." He paused, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "So just tell me where it is so I can be done with you." The switch in his demeanour was frightening. Samantha wasn't sure what to expect from him without knowing exactly why he was here. She suspected he was looking for the same thing she was sent for but of what significance it was to him was a mystery. She felt the cord loosen enough just then.

"You walked in before I could get to it," she said, "Under the rug, there's a safe. You'll need to break into it."

Moriarty eyes her suspiciously.

"Take a look," she said.

He kicked up the rug and revealed the trapdoor. Samantha untangled the chord as discreetly as she could, her hands now free. She watched as Moriarty crouched to open the trapdoor and with that she leapt up, whipped the cord around his neck and clung tightly. He threw himself backward so that they both collapsed to the ground. Samantha maintained her grip despite becoming trapped under him. His head knocked back against her bruised cheek and she tried to stifle a cry through her teeth. The more he struggled the tighter the cord wrapped around him until oxegyn ceased reaching his brain causing him to pass out. Samantha's arms flopped to her sides and she let out an exhausted sigh. She then wriggled out from under the limp body. She grabbed her phone from Moriarty's pocket and snatched her handbag on the way out the door. She hurried down the corridor, adjusting her uniform and fixing her hair. She realised then how hard her heart was beating. She did not expect Moriarty of all people on this job. What would she tell Mycroft? How was she going to deal with this? As she reached the stairs she spotted Abramovich ascending from the floor below. Shit. She tried the elevator but the door wouldn't open fast enough. She was going to be caught. Hide! She whipped out the master key and used it to hide in one of the rooms. She held her breath and watched through the eyehole until the Russian woman walked passed. She waited a moment to make sure the coast was clear.

"Hey!"

Samantha turned to see a sleepy headed man emerge from the ensuite.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, "I didn't order room service. Get out!"

"Sorry, sir, my mistake!" Samantha babbled as she slipped back out again. She checked the corridor. Empty. With a sigh of relief, she hurried down the stairs and out of the building. She hailed a passing taxi and hopped into the backseat when it pulled over.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked.

Samantha gave him directions to the accommodation she was staying. With that she sat back and let out a long sigh. Her adrenaline levels slowly petered but her leg twitched in agitation. She was surprised to find herself smiling. She hadn't felt like this since she worked for the agency.

 _Jim Moriarty_ , she thought. _What on earth are you doing here_?


	11. For a Fool

"I leave you alone for five minutes and she gets away."

Nika's Russian accent was always particularly pointed when she was angry. Moriarty opened his eyes to see her standing over him. He blinked hard and rubbed his neck where it was tender. He should have seen that coming. Another mistake. They were a dime a dozen these days.

"You never have anything nice to say, you know that?" he rasped. He sat up and rested his back against the foot of the bed. Samantha invaded his mind. That woman. Would he ever be rid of her?

"Why is she here?" Nika barked.

"To torment me, why else?" he drawled.

Nika folded her arms, expecting further explanation.

"She's British intelligence now," Moriarty sighed, "I know the Iceman's handy work anywhere."

"So? What does this mean?"

"It means the Yakuza have been very naughty, dabbling their affairs in the UK."

"I meant what does it mean for us?" Nika crouched to his level. He glanced at her. A gash split the corner of her lip from her struggle with Samantha. There was a tiredness in her sea-coloured eyes he hadn't noticed before.

"I don't know," he admitted, "All I know is that whatever was in that safe was worth killing the head of Yakuza and sending British intelligence for. We may be juggling more balls than we anticipated."

Nika sat next to him, her head tilted back against the bed.

"I am going to die, yes?" she said dejectedly.

"You doubting my abilities again?" Moriarty growled, though he was beginning to doubt himself and he knew she could pick up on that.  
"She's here," she replied bitterly, rolling her head to look at him, "She will beat you. She always does."

Anger crackled like static in his brain. He was sick of this feeling of powerlessness.

"Then leave," he spat.

"What?"

"If you really don't think I can help you then why bother stick around?"

Nika lapsed into a silence.

"Does she have what we need?" She said after a moment, her tone indicating defeat in that moment.

"I don't know," he admitted. He didn't find anything on Samantha's person, nor was there anything in the safe as she had told him. Did she know the safe was empty or was she too led on a wild goose chase? Either way, she played him for a fool. She will beat you. She always does. Nika's harsh words lingered like a bad aftertaste just thinking about it.

"Call Jirou," he said suddenly, "Have him arrange a meeting with Rin. We upheld our end of the bargain to our ability so I expect she will uphold hers."

"Optimistic," Nika noted.

"What else can I be?" Moriarty sighed.

* * *

Samantha sat at the kitchen counter, holding an ice pack to her swollen cheekbone. She had been sitting there a while despite the fact her face had turned numb and the ice had mostly melted. She ran tonight's events over and over in her head. Firstly, Ishikawa had, either knowingly or unknowingly, led her to a dead end. If it was knowingly, there would be a good chance that her only lead had taken the opportunity to up and vanish. That would potentially call for extraction and end the mission. Not good. If unknowingly, she would either have to further search for whatever was in that safe or find an alternative lead.

And then there was Moriarty. Admittedly she never knew what became of him after their last encounter back at the lake. She had been entirely disconnected from her old employer and so just assumed they had taken care of him. There was no way he was just operating business as usual without the agency knowing about it. And why did he need the information she was looking for? What was his involvement with the Yakuza?

And lastly, how the hell was she going to explain all this to Mycroft? Would he pull her out of the mission if she told him that Moriarty was here? Did he already know Moriarty was here? She pushed thoughts of paranoia from her head before they could have the chance to form. She had to focus.

As if he knew she was thinking about him, Mycroft's number lit up on her phone. She sighed and answered the call on loud speaker.

"Hey," she said, tossing the ice pack into the sink.

"I was wondering when you would check in," replied Mycroft.

"Sorry," she said, carefully testing the bruise on her cheek with her fingers, "Things sort of didn't go as expected."

"Oh?"

There was a long moment in which Samantha contemplated telling him about Moriarty. She decided against it despite her better judgement.

"The safe was empty," she sighed, "There was nothing there. I don't know whether Ishikawa was lying or just ignorant."

"So we've no leads?"

Samantha paused again.

"I assumed you would have new orders," she said, cautiously. She didn't want to give Mycroft the impression that this case had run cold.

"Why would I?"

"It's your case," she ventured.

"No. It's your case. Now do we have a lead or do I need to pull you out?"

Samantha chewed her thumbnail. Damn. This was exactly what she was afraid of.

"Why? Do you have another case you need me for?" she prodded.

"Not for the foreseeable future, no."

Great. Shipped back to London with nothing to do and nothing to show for it. How long would it be before she could get work again? She needed to think fast.

"That's fine," she said casually, "I think I might have a lead anyway. I'll start following up on it in the morning."

A silence followed.

"Samantha..." Mycroft intonated suspicion, "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No," she said too quickly, "I mean I'll let you know more details when I do. For now I'm sort of working on a hunch."

"I don't pay you to follow your hunches, you know."

"Mycroft," she reasoned, "You can trust me. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. If it turns out to be nothing I'll call for an extraction."

There was another pause. Did he suspect she wasn't being entirely truthful? She wouldn't put it past a Holmes, that's for sure. All she could do was rely on misdirection and hope for the best.

"Do you want these guys caught or not?" she sighed, "If I recall, you were the one that talked me into this in the first place with your impassioned speech about the good of the country and all that."

She heard Mycroft draw a breath just then.

"I want to hear back from you in twenty-four hours," he said.

"Forty-eight," she bounced back, "I have no idea how deep this rabbit hole will go."

"Fine. But if you find yourself in too deep we'll pull you out and have special-ops take care of it."

"Understood."

The line closed.

Samantha let out a long sigh of frustration.

"I don't pay you to follow your hunches, you know," she mimicked Mycroft in an exaggerated accent. "We'll have special-ops take care of it."

Special-ops her backside. This was her mission and she was going to finish it. There was only one thing she needed to do before she could proceed and further though. She had to find Moriarty.


	12. Nothing to Lose

**Hi! Gosh, it's been a while. Thanks for sticking around. I'm really glad you did =) And I want to thank each and every one of you for your faves and follows and reviews. They mean the world to me ^_^**

 **Did y'all watch season 4? Needless to say I was so happy we got more Moriarty. I did find it rather uncanny that the show chose that particular song for that scene though lol.**

 **Anyway, this chapter was very difficult to write and I don't know if I'm satisfied with it even now. But I did suffer months long writer's block due to being too busy, tired, sick and just plain burnt out creatively. Hope you people like it anyway.**

* * *

Samantha was no stranger to searching for the elusive criminal. All it took was some ingenuity and creative thinking. Her first move was to pull footage from the hotel's security cameras to see what information she could glean. The only footage of Moriarty inside the building was on the night she met him. It was clear to her that he was there for a specific reason. She then began the tedious task of trawling through traffic cams in the surrounding area in hope to find any kind of pattern to his movements. This was boring, monotonous and time consuming but last resorts usually were. She jotted down times and locations of sightings as she worked. Apart from a couple of irregularities, she narrowed down a radius within which he popped up the most. She requested more time from Mycroft as the 48 hour window was too short for the amount of work she had to do. It would be impossible to tell where Moriarty would be at any given moment so any further contact with him would be, like back at the hotel, down to sheer luck. All she could do was put herself out there and hope her luck would return.

* * *

"You've come to see me, I assume with good news?" said Rin with an eerie mirth. She was sitting behind a desk in the small dark room where Moriarty and Nika had been led to at the back of her casino. Upon the desk were two screens. One was the monitor to a computer, the other displayed multiple security images feeding from the casino's cameras. The brother, Arata, sat to Rin's left and slightly out from the desk, whereas Rin sat dead center. This told him that this was by all accounts Rin's desk, not Arata's. Something about this plucked at the tendrils of his mind so he tacked it to the mental corkboard he had been compiling since his first encounter with the Yakuza.

Behind Moriarty was the exit which was flanked by two bouncers, one of which he recognised from the flight from New Zealand. He wondered how much of a threat Rin considered him to be.

"Well, we come with news," Moriarty retorted, "Whether it's good or bad is a matter of perspective."

Rin once again lit up, and took a long, deep drag of her cigarette. _Chain smoker_ , he observed. _Stressed, short-tempered_.

"Go on," she said in a puff of smoke.

Moriarty explained what he found at the hotel, leaving out the detail about Samantha. He wanted to exercise caution before he knew all the facts. When he finished speaking, Rin frowned, running her thumb across her bottom lip.

"A safe?" she said, "So father was hiding something."

"Rin, you can't know that,"Arata interjected.

"You didn't know father like I did!" she shot back, "I knew he had his secrets. It's the reason he's dead. And it's our fault. We should have known. We could have prevented this."

Their exchange was spoken in Japanese, but Moriarty's grasp of the language had returned to him having spent enough time in the city.

"I know you're still grieving-"

"This isn't grief, brother! This is business! Whoever killed our father has started a war. Don't you understand?"

"If I may," Moriarty felt this family quarrel was wasting his time, "I need assurance that we are done now. After all I held up my end-"

"You are not done until I get what I want," Rin said.

Nika bolted up from her seat. "I'll give you something you skinny -"

"Nika!" Moriarty cut her off.

"She can't do this to us," she said to him in Russian, "We did what she asked. We are done!"

"Sit down. I'll handle this," Moriarty replied composedly.

Nika lapsed into silence and sat back down with an air of indignation. Rin shared an acidic glare with her before redirecting her attention back to Moriarty.

"I don't want her here," she said, pointedly.

With that, she gestured to the bouncers who each grabbed Nika either side and hauled her from her seat. Nika erupted with Russian expletives that faded with her departure from the room.

"Such a temper," said Rin, "I don't know how you put up with it. No wonder she was on the hit list."

Moriarty looked her dead in the eye, daring her to push him further. She met his stare with a smile.

"Don't worry," she said, with a toke of her cigarette, "No harm will come to her. Yet."

The bouncers returned and with the absence of Nika, Moriarty felt particularly vulnerable. He could die here in this room. This was more of a logical assessment than any self-pitying pessimism however. Rin had invited him to what was undoubtedly an illegal casino, and brought him to what was undoubtedly her private business room. She had very deliberately involved him just deep enough that she had a very good excuse to kill him if he should refuse to grant further service to her. And then she would likely kill Nika to tidy up any loose ends. He was in a position where dying was too easy. On that thought, a new spark lit up inside him. He had a goal and a very immediate one at that: staying alive. He had often despised the thought of it but right now staying alive was a new challenge that gave him purpose. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. He was not about to let some Yakuza brat take his blaze of glory from him.

"Why are you smiling?" asked Rin. He hadn't realised that he was.

"I was just thinking that if I were to be stripped down any further I'd be sitting here bollock naked in front of you right now," he mused.

"Your point?"

"I have nothing to lose." Moriarty stood which provoked the bouncers to reach for their concealed weapons.

"Relax boys, I'm just stretching my legs," he said.

They hesitated but stood down on Rin's prompt.

"I have nothing to lose!" he repeated swinging his arms wide, "You could kill Nika, you could kill me and I wouldn't be a whole lot worse off than I already am. I have nothing to lose but I have..." A broad grin spread across his face, " _everything_ to gain... And you're going to help me."

Rin cocked her head to the side, her expression telling him she was not impressed.

"Oh but hear me out," he insisted, suddenly animated, "You want your daddy's murderer? I can hand him to you gift-wrapped. You want to start a war? Honey, I can make you general. All I need is a teensy bit of support from your… organisation."

"He's trying to manipulate you, Rin," Arata piped, "Don't trust anything he says."

Moriarty glared at him. He knew the brother would be a problem.

"Why would he manipulate me, brother?" Rin replied, though the question was directed at Moriarty, "What do I have to lose?"

"Well nothing," Moriarty replied with a shrug. "You get to avenge your father's death and I get to back to my glory days. We could even do business together once I'm back on form."

"You want a truce?"

"An alliance! A truce would imply we never liked each other to begin with and that's just not true, is it?"

"And how can I trust you, Moriarty-san?"

"Ah! Good question! Your boss is so smart," he said directing that last part to one of the guards. "I've just told you that you can so easily destroy me right now. You have me utterly at my ropes end. My life is literally in your hands.

And if that's not enough, I'll tell you about the woman that was at your daddy's hotel suite the night I was there. She's an old friend of mine - kind of an ex, actually. You can also use her as leverage against me. Pretty good leverage too or so I'm told.

So there you go. All my cards are on the table. Heh, get it? We're in a casino!" He chuckled at his own pun. "Do you understand what I'm giving you right now? See, I like you Rin Tatsumi. You're a cool girl and I would really like that we be friends."

Rin hadn't taken a smoke in several minutes and a column of ash burnt almost down to the butt of her cigarette. Her soft features were hardened in a taut frown.

"What woman?" she questioned, concern in her tone. Her ignorance was genuine, much to Moriarty's interest. He tacked that note to the corkboard. In one movement, he swung his chair around and straddled it, draping his arms across the back and resting his chin there.

"Oh honey," he said with a placid smile, "We have much to discuss."

* * *

Nika was bristling. What on earth was taking Moriarty so long? Was she going to die tonight? Had they already killed Moriarty? The waiting was driving her insane. And the nerve of that Yakuza girl. In her line of work Nika had come across many people she had learned to hate, but Tatsumi had quickly earned her way to the top of the list. She fantasized about all the different ways she could kill her if she were given the choice. It cheered her up, if only slightly.

Sighing she eventually abandoned her post and followed the signs to the bathroom. She was caught off guard when she opened one of the stall doors to find Jirou crouched beside the toilet. He had arrived with them to the casino earlier but was not permitted entry to Tatsumi's office. She then noticed that he had been arranging lines of white powder across the toilet lid. Jirou glanced up guiltily as if he were a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. There was a moment of awkward silence before he pointed to the powder by way of offering. Ordinarily Nika would decline most drugs while on a job she needed to stay sharp for, but those thoughts didn't even have the chance to form before her apathy took over the driver's seat. From her boot she produced her pen knife - something the bouncer's missed when they frisked her earlier- and held it out to Jirou. He obligingly poured a line of the drug along the blade with a tap-tap-tap of his finger against the clear plastic bag. She snorted the line in one breath and sat on the floor next to Jirou. She sniffed and rubbed her nose for a few moments while the chemical smell dominated her nasal passage. She then rested her head back against the stall and said "Fuck everything."

* * *

Moriarty was led out through a back entrance of the building so that he found himself in an alleyway. He was satisfied with the negotiations he had made with Rin tonight. Now he felt like he could really move forward and get out of the rut he had been in. His mind was already teeming ideas, solutions and probabilities. He was still on the international most wanted list, but the Yakuza's resources were just enough to help him build back his empire to the way it was and that would have to do for now.

He was about to make his way out to the street when a thought occurred to him. Where's Nika? It was then he noticed someone on the ground only a few yards away. His curiosity getting the better of him, he approached, circling around the figure to get a better look.

"Huh," he said as the person glanced up at him.

"Ah, Mr. Moriarty," said Samantha, her syllables broken with apparent pain, "Just the man I was looking for." She was on her knees and doubled over, clutching her abdomen. Moriarty noticed the blood on the pavement. It was a lot of blood.

"Samantha, dear," he said, as if appealing to a child, "Do you need medical assistance?"

Samantha seemed to think on it a moment before she replied, "If it's not too much trouble."


	13. Low Places

"When I agreed to accept medical assistance I was expecting maybe a hospital," Samantha groaned through the pain in her abdomen.

Moriarty had taken her through the door he exited and she soon found herself lying on a table in a small room.

"A medic will arrive very shortly to treat you," replied a young Japanese woman who was in the room with them.

"Samantha, this is Rin Tatsumi. This is her establishment," Moriarty provided.

Alarm bells rang in Samantha's head.

"Mr. Moriarty, may I speak with you alone?"

Moriarty and the woman exchanged glances.

"I'll wait outside for the medic," Tatsumi said. She gave Samantha a quick glance before leaving the room. As soon as they were alone, Samantha grabbed Moriarty's tie and pulled him down to her level

"You have just blown my cover!" she hissed.

"Me?" he mewled objectionably, "It looks as though you've achieved that all by yourself. Who did this to you anyway?"

"I don't know! Maybe your Yakuza friend!"

"Don't be silly, she did no such thing. Now let me go, you're getting blood on my suit."

She released his tie which had indeed become stained.

"Ruined," he said with a tut.

Samantha gritted her teeth as a new wave of pain overcame her. She wanted to vomit but was too sore to move.

"Let me have a look," he said then as he tried to peel her hand from the wound she was protecting. She resisted as much as her waning strength would allow her, feeling a new searing pain as any coagulated blood was being torn from her skin. An involuntary cry escaped her as fresh blood rushed to the surface of her laceration.

"Oh it's not so bad," Moriarty said, "Just a shallow gash. It will only need a few stitches."

"Well that's a relief! Maybe I'll just walk it off," Samantha croaked sarcastically.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

"I don't think so."

He pressed on her wound.  
"Aaaaughah-I was in the alley-"

"Stalking me."  
"Yes. And this guy just…attacked me." Samantha strangled a scream in her throat as the pain shot through her whole body. Her fingers splayed and trembled.

"What guy?"

"I don't know."

He pressed harder.

"I don't know!" she cried, the pain was blinding. "He was…dressed in black…wore a hood. He had a knife."

"What happened?"

Samantha could barely think. Stars flashed before her eyes.

"Come on, come on. The quicker you talk, the quicker this will be over," Moriarty hurried her.

"You.. distracted him…both of us… He got me with the knife… But then he was gone."

"And who would want you dead?" he asked ponderously.

"Nnngggh not sure. I think I'm onto some Yakuza activity. I may have been… compromised."

She looked up at him towering over her. His expression was deadpan, his very being radiated a froideur.

"Did Mycroft send you?" he said.

"You know, this isn't the first time I've been tortured for information."

Moriarty snorted with amusement.

"Fine, I'll make a deduction then, shall I?" he said, "Mycroft sent you because of some British national security thing. I'm gonna guess… oooh… money laundering. And it's happening with one of those big-boy banks which is why it's of national concern. Typical Mycroft stuff really. He wants to test your super-spy chops as this is your first gig since our romp at the lake all that time ago. And you picked up some Yakuza scent which is why you ended up in the Tatsumi suite. Am I right so far?"

Samantha didn't reply. Admitting he was right would make her liable for leaking classified information, but she had already half done that ultimately.

"Of course I'm right. Who are we kidding?" Moriarty scoffed, "What I don't understand is who did this to you and why. It wasn't Tatsumi, she didn't even know about you until just now. This leads me to believe there's a third party that I'm not being told about"

"I...don't understand," Samantha said, "What the hell is going on around here?"

"Tatsumi's father was murdered. Something was taken from him. Perhaps the same people who murdered him are now out to get you."

"Fuck."

Ishikawa had rat her out. That was the only explanation she had right now. Was she on a hit list now? What the hell was she going to do?

She heard the door open behind her just then and felt relief as Moriarty stopped pressing on her wound. Two figures came into her peripheral. She could see that one was Rin Tatsumi and the other was a small elderly woman.

"You've got to be kidding," said Samantha as the old woman perched a large medical bag upon the table and began to root for something inside it.

"This is my aunt Maki," Tatsumi said to her with a hint of scorn in her voice, "She has been providing medical services for this family since before I was born. You will treat her with respect."

Samantha watched with dread as the old lady's shaky hands placed some medical tools next to her.

"Oh please tell me you at least have anesthetic," she begged.

"Aunt Maki does not speak English," said Tatsumi and she then repeated Samantha's request in Japanese.

"Hai, hai," the old woman replied, waving her hands dismissively. She gave the air of someone who had seen everything and was entirely done with it all.

She adjusted her thick glasses as she inspected Samantha's abdomen.

"Hmm….too much blood" she grumbled. She grabbed a pair of trauma shears and tore open the fabric of Samantha's t-shirt.

"I don't think that was entirely necessary," Samantha said as she winced with the renewed pain.

Maki fumbled about with her equipment and held a syringe before Samantha's face. She said something in Japanese, pronouncing it slowly and clearly. Samantha's vocabulary didn't quite extend to medical terms but she got the gist from what she knew: anesthetic. The syringe went into her arm before Samantha realised it was happening. There was more fumbling before the old woman produced a second syringe, again pronouncing a foreign word. Antibiotic, perhaps? This too was swiftly slipped into her arm with surprising precision. Samantha lay her head back and stared at the ceiling. She was not looking forward to writing up her mission report after all this. Beyond her peripheral, she could hear Moriarty and Tatsumi murmuring to each other. Why was Moriarty in cahoots with a Yakuza gang anyway? It seemed like something that was beneath him. Better yet, how was he even a free man? Her attempt to confront him tonight didn't quite go as she had planned. She wondered what would have happened to her had he not found her in that alley.

She looked down at Maki who was gathering bloodied gauze and stuffing them into a small bin. Her wound had been cleaned and she could see it clearly for the first time. It gaped a fair few inches across her abdomen, but Moriarty had been right in saying it wasn't so deep. Not so bad. Maybe recovery time wouldn't be as long as she would have expected.

She was feeling more relaxed now. Her vision blurred slightly and she no longer felt that searing pain across her stomach. Whatever the old woman had given her was working quickly.

The room was silent as Maki began suturing the wound. Despite the effect of the anesthetic, Samantha could still feel the needle pierce and the thread being dragged through her skin. It didn't hurt per se, but it felt unpleasant, unnatural and intrusive. Then her thoughts started to drift as the medicine took hold of her.

* * *

Moriarty watched as Maki worked away on Samantha. He was surprised at the efficiency and skill a woman her age displayed. Samantha had stopped speaking and her breathing slowed and deepened.

None of this was part of his plan and he spent the last half hour thinking and rethinking up a new one.

"I'll need a safe house," he said to Rin.

"You think you're in danger?" Rin enquired. She seemed surprised but also something close to excited.

"Not me. Her." Moriarty nodded to Samantha.

"Oh." Rin gave a knowing smile. "This is the ex I can ruin you with?"

"It's not like that," he chided petulantly, "Someone's out to get her. Whoever it is could probably bring us to your father's killer. Keeping her alive would be in your best interest right now."

"Yes, perhaps you're right," Rin replied thoughtfully.

Something occurred to him then.

"Do you have any enemies, Ms. Tatsumi?"

"Many."

"I mean specifically. Any competition I should know about?"

"Well…there is another Yakuza gang in Osaka but my father arranged peace with them a long time ago."

"Think you could organise a meeting between myself and the oyabun?"

"With Saito?" she laughed, "I could but he's in jail. He has been for a long time. I can't see how he could be behind any of this."

"Interesting," he muttered, adding this to his mental corkboard.

"You should wash up," said Rin, gesturing to his bloodstained hands, "I'll see if I can find you a safe house and arrange transport."

Moriarty glanced at Samantha. She looked, for all the world, as if she were sleeping peacefully.

"I'll do that," he said, "And thanks. It's good to have friends in low places."

He left the room and began to making his way to the bathroom. He was caught off-guard by Nika who almost ran into him on her way out of a cubicle. Moriarty immediately noticed her red glassy eyes and red nose. She looked as though she had been crying but she by no means seemed depressed.

"Are you _high_?" Moriarty asked before the deduction barely formed in his brain.

At that moment, a second person emerged from the cubicle. Jirou was mid-buttoning his shirt when he saw Moriarty and froze. The smell of sex was apparent on both of them. Moriarty's jaw dropped as he glanced from Jirou to Nika and back.

"You were right about him," Nika said with a wry shrug, "Eager to please."  
"Oh for god sake." Moriarty turned to the sink to wash his hands. "I can't even look at you right now."


	14. Burning

Samantha wasn't sure where she was at that given moment, but Moriarty was kissing her and it was all her attention was focused on. She felt restricted as if tangled up in a bedsheet but she didn't mind while she was being kissed. She was almost uncomfortably warm with his body on top of hers but she didn't mind this either. She just wanted this moment where they weren't fighting or killing or betraying each other. She just wanted to kiss.

She wasn't sure how long Moriarty's hand had been squeezing her throat before she realised she was starting to suffocate. She tried to reach up to pry his hand away but she couldn't free her arms from the constricting sheets. Something told her with utmost certainty that if she stopped kissing she would be free. She knew she would die unless she stopped but she didn't want to. Her instinct to survive just couldn't outmatch her need to be loved. It fizzed like television static at the back of her brain but it rarely had control over her impulses; unlike love - that pesky, needy nuisance that hijacked her brain, and kicked logic and rationality out of the driver's seat.

She grew more uncomfortable which each second. Her body felt like it was on fire and she struggled to breathe. _She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to -_

A familiar scenario: she found herself underwater. She was back at the lake and swimming down hard towards the lake bed. She was still suffocating. She was running out of time. She had to rescue someone before it was too late…but who? Panic seized her when she realised she had no idea who she was looking for. She swam and swam and swam but the lake bed didn't seem to come any closer. Where were they? Where were they? And then suddenly she felt like she had been violently pulled through the water's surface…

And she awoke bolt upright and gasping for air. She felt cold and hot and wet all at the same time. What she initially mistook for lake water was actually sweat that drenched her clothes and bedsheets, and caused her hair to stick uncomfortably to her face and neck. Despite feeling hot, she shivered. Every muscle and joint in her body ached.

Just when she had managed to drag her consciousness out of her dreams a question formed: _where the heck was she?_

She was in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. The curtains were drawn but she could tell it was night. Suddenly, light hit her retinas and she screwed her eyes shut, feeling like she just took a gunshot to the head.

"Sorry, love," came a soft voice, "I need to see what I'm doing."

Samantha slowly opened her eyes, carefully granting the light permission to fill her vision. When her vision focused she could see Moriarty crossing the room to her. He was carrying a bowl in one had with a cloth draped over the side.

"I found you whimpering under your bedsheets," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I realised you had hit a fever so I thought I'd help you cool down." He dipped the cloth into the bowl and wrung it out. "You should lie back."

Samantha complied and felt every component in her body grate together as she did so. A sharp gasp hitched in her throat as Moriarty brought the cold damp cloth to her forehead. It felt like fire against her sensitive skin.

"Oh I know, poor pet," Moriarty drawled sympathetically, "Sure you're only miserable." He gently patted and rubbed her face and neck, cleaning the sweat and loosening some of her plastered hair. He stopped then as he seemed to notice something. He lifted the white shift she was wearing up to her ribcage. She was too weak to protest.

"I'm sorry about this," he said as she felt something sticky being peeled from her stomach. She hissed through her teeth, a whole new pain reverberating through her body.

"You've just been bleeding," he said then, "But the sutures look ok. I'll just get you some fresh bandages."

"Wh-" Samantha was utterly confused. She craned her neck downward as much as her fragile body would allow. A long row of surgical stitches jagged across her stomach. "Oh." She remembered the old woman who had stitched her up. She remembered the man that attacked her behind the Yakuza casino.

Moriarty returned not before long with a roll of gauze and some tape. As gentle as he was, she couldn't help but whimper at the slightest amount of pressure on her skin. His kindness at the moment didn't for a second go unnoticed by Samantha, but so too did his cruelty to her back at the room not go forgotten.

When he was done he produced a pill bottle.

"Painkillers," he said, rattling the pills before her, "Take two to help you sleep and bring down the fever."

She again obeyed his instructions, willing to do anything to shake off this biting, burning sensation that overwhelmed her. She then lay back down and watched as Moriarty gathered his things. He was muttering on about something she wasn't altogether paying attention to. She was still on edge from her fever dream and feared slipping back into it again. As Moriarty turned to leave, she reached up and grabbed him by the hand. He froze.

"Stay," she said meekly, feeling like a child, "At least until I fall asleep again."

He hesitated and for a moment she was convinced that he would refuse. To her surprise, he sighed, sat back down and said, "Alright." He gazed across the room seemingly deep in thought. His profile was the last thing she saw before falling back to sleep. She hadn't even realised she was still holding his hand.


	15. Questions

Samantha awoke to a desperate ache in her bladder. She had no idea how long she had been sleeping but it was about to cost her a renal infection. As she slid out of bed she was greeted with a dull pain in her abdomen.

"Oh, yeah," she muttered, tentatively feeling the bandaged area with her fingers.

She had had only a blissful few seconds before yesterday's memories came rushing to the front of her mind.

She paused and looked around the room. Where the heck was she? The décor was modern and expensive looking, stylish but not too fanciful. It could have been a holiday home perhaps.

She then spotted the door to an en suite and hurried to it as much as her injured body would allow. After relieving herself and washing her hands, she became suddenly alarmed by the reflection she caught in the mirror above the sink. Her hair was ragged and in knots. Dark rings circled her puffy eyes and her lips were dry and chapped. She was wearing a white shift that wasn't hers, and it was stained with sweat and blood.

"Good to be back to work," she sighed acerbically. She ran the shower and returned to the bedroom to look for her belongings. She found her clothes on a chair, torn and bloodstained. Her spare clothes would have been back at the flat she was staying at so she had nothing to wear but this soiled nightdress. Her phone was on the bedside table but the battery was dead. The gun she had carried the night she was attacked was predictably nowhere to be found.

She checked the drawers and wardrobe which were stocked with fresh towels and women's clothing. The clothes were chic and not exactly to her taste, but they seemed to be roughly her size so they would have to do. She grabbed a towel and made her way to the shower.

The water felt good and the warmth was comforting against her skin. She lathered some shampoo into her hair and felt her locks loosen and the texture return to normal again. She stayed under the shower until the water ran cold.

As she towel-dried, she noticed that her bandage had become damp and had lost some of its adhesion. She would need to replace it. After some more rummaging she found a First Aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. She peeled away her damp bandage and inspected her injury. The laceration extended across about three inches from her navel. The area around it was rather inflamed and some puss was visible between the sutures. Images of the previous night flashed in her mind. Of course she would have spiked a fever with this infection. She could only hope that it wouldn't delay her recovery time. Sighing, she dressed her injury with fresh bandages, wrapped herself in a towel and returned to the bedroom.

Finding something to wear with her injury was tricky. A lot of the clothes seemed to be a little too small for her, making any mid-rise jeans out of the question. The only other options were suit pants and pencil skirts but they would still be too painful for her around the waistline. She opted for a grey tunic dress with a cowl neck. It was a little tight around the bust but the rest of it flowed loosely around her body giving her injury the space it needed. The only shoes available were too small for her so she was resigned to wearing her lace-up boots instead. She couldn't bend over to tie the laces though so the boots were left loose. It looked a bit absurd with the dress.

She only realised how exhausted she was when she sat at the edge of the bed. The infection was taking its toll on her body. She wondered if she should check herself into a hospital. Would that make her vulnerable to another attack? She considered the possibility that the attack may have been a warning rather than an assassination attempt. But then that opened up a whole lot of new questions. She would need to discuss this with Mycroft.

Oh.

Her phone was dead.

She tried to recall the last time she contacted Mycroft. How long would she have to have dropped off the radar before he would send a search team?

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a steady, rhythmic banging coming from the next room. It wasn't until she heard someone moaning that she realised what she was hearing. Her ears burned, feeling intensely embarrassed at being witness to someone else's…passion. But who the hell else was in this building? Another memory from last night flashed in her mind, and this time she was remembering Moriarty crossing the room to her... _Oh_ …

The noise was starting to get more rambunctious and she decided that she could no longer just sit here listening to it. She made her way to the door which apparently led out into a hallway. To her right were a couple of more doors she assumed led to other bedrooms. She took a left, which led her out to a landing overlooking a spacious living area. She descended the stairs carefully, each step a struggle against pain. She then noticed Moriarty, who was sitting on one of the luxurious sofas, reading and with earphones in his ears. He looked up as she approached and she stopped in her tracks. His eyes trailed down her body and back up again, probably thinking how ridiculous she looked right now. Despite the awkward circumstances at that moment, she found herself oddly comforted that he was here and not contributing to the noise upstairs.

 _Who's having sex?_ she mouthed.

Moriarty looked puzzled as he removed his earphones and listened.

"Oh god, are they at it again?" he said.

"What? Who?"

"Nika's having an existential crisis," Moriarty sighed as he resumed reading, "Got herself a young buck. On the plus side, at least they're getting along."

Samantha really had no words. Everything about this moment was just bizarre.

"I think you and I should talk," she said eventually.

"I suppose we should."

The noise upstairs grew louder again.

"Maybe somewhere else?" Samantha suggested.

Moriarty gave a grunt that was somewhere between agreement and disgust.

Samantha followed him out through the patio doors into a large secluded garden. The garden was particularly beautiful and its beauty was only enhanced by the mild spring morning. They strolled down a small gravel path. Samantha struggled to keep pace with her injury but declined Moriarty's help when he offered. They reached a bench at the bottom of the garden that was adorned with a floral canopy. Samantha carefully sat, stretching out her legs so as not to put pressure on her abdomen.

"How are you feeling?" asked Moriarty as she settled into a comfortable position. She thought it odd for him to ask something that would imply concern.

"Not great," she replied stoically.

"Well you look like shit."

She choked.

"Please don't make me laugh," she said, suppressing a chortle, "I'll pop a stitch."

"Well I suppose we can't have you busting your guts all over the place. I'm not cleaning up after you again."

"Oh no. Can't interrupt you brown-nosing Yakuza now, can we?" Samantha derided, but not without a touch of humor in her tone, "I suppose there's a reason you had me patched up and taken here? I can't imagine it was solely out of the goodness of your heart."

"What?" Moriarty gasped as if overly offended, "Do you mean to imply that I would have an ultimatum in helping the woman that utterly destroyed me and my empire? How presumptuous of you, Samantha."

She gave him a look.

"Ok fine, you got me. But you owe me some answers too. I did save your life after all."

"You did not save my life," Samantha corrected, "But you did do me a favor. So tell me, what was it all for? I recall you said something about my attacker having some connection to Tatsumi."

"You were in the suite where Tatsumi was killed. Somebody obviously didn't appreciate you snooping around. If we can find out who, it could lead us to his killer."

Samantha frowned. This raised several more questions, but one seemed more pertinent.

"And what is your connection to the Tatsumi family?" She enquired.

"Ah, ah! That's two questions," Moriarty scolded, "It's my turn."

"What is this? A question for a question?"

"Exactly that. Now, tell me why you were there that night."

"I thought you had it all figured out," Samantha cooed.

"Mmm... I know you're working for Mycroft. I don't know specifically why you were at the hotel though."

Samantha considered how much trouble she would be in if she started sharing sensitive mission details to Jim Moriarty of all people. However, she had sought him out for reasons specific to this mission so perhaps divulging what she knew already would benefit her in the long run. She sighed and explained how she tracked the paper trail to Ishikawa and how the only information she managed to squeeze out of him was the address of the hotel.

Moriarty made an intrigued noise in his throat and said, "What was in the safe?"

"That's two questions," she grinned.

Moriarty chuckled, turning his gaze to the garden. There was an undeniable familiarity about all this and Samantha wasn't sure how to feel. On one hand, Moriarty's past actions were unforgivable. The situation he had put her in had forced her to give up everything about her old life. If she didn't have the support of John and Mycroft back in London, her resentment could have pushed her over the edge. On the other hand, their ease of conversation was pleasantly nostalgic. She could, at the very least, strike a temporary alliance with him while she was here. What she would do with him after…well…she would have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

"So," she piped, "You and the Yakuza. Start talking."

Moriarty regaled his side of the story from the assassination attempt on Nika to running into Samantha at the hotel.

"So has Rin just relieved you of any burden or…?"

"Oh no, she still holds all the power here and she could have her way with me any time she likes," Moriarty replied, "However, I have assured her that our currently wavering agreement will be profitable to her in the future. I scratch her back, she scratches mine and ensures that I have the means to support her business should she ever need it down the line. All I need from her is a leg-up and I'm back to being good ole fashioned Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. And that was two questions."

"Fine. You can ask two this time then."

"What was in the safe?"

"I don't know. It was empty. But I told you that and you just wasted a question."

"Do I get a do-over?"

"No."

"Damn, good thing I have a spare."

Samantha fought a smile.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked and Samantha rolled her eyes.

"No," she said curtly before changing the subject, "What is this place?"

"We're currently located just outside the city," said Moriarty, gesturing around him with his arms, "The property belongs to the Tatsumi family. Nice digs, eh? There's decent security in place so you'll be safe here while you recover. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No," Samantha huffed, "And since we're onto a new subject, how are you free, and what the hell have you been doing this whole time?"

"Ah! Now that's a story for another time."

"I have all day."

Moriarty peered at her, his features scrunched in exaggerated concern.

"Are you sure?" he queried, "You look a bit peaky to me. Maybe you should lie down."

Samantha opened her mouth to protest before realising he was probably right. She felt totally drained, and she was finding it difficult to distract herself from the pain any further. Besides, she still needed to touch base with Mycroft and reassure him that she was still alive… at least for now.

"You think Nika and her beau are done bumping uglies?" she enquired.

Moriarty laughed mellifluously.

"God I hope so," he chuckled, "Only one way to find out I suppose." He stood and began making his way back to the house. Samantha intended to follow but she was having trouble standing up in a way that didn't send a dagger of pain through her stomach. Moriarty quickly noticed her hesitation. He casually turned on his heel and extended a hand.

"Do you need help again?" he said, amusement cracking the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be taking a certain amount of pleasure out of her current vulnerability. She sighed despondently and took his hand. She then anchored her heels into the ground and used his arm as a lever to pull herself up while keeping her body poker straight.

"Thanks," she muttered, finding her balance. She glanced at her hand in his and quickly snapped it away, feeling flushed. Moriarty raised his eyebrows, his mouth taut as if suppressing a grin.

"Come on then," he said, with a nod of his head, and they strolled together back towards the house.


	16. Neither Logical Nor Sensible

**_Author's Note: There will probably be a few flashback chapters throughout the story. This one never made it into_ To Catch a Ghost _so I thought I'd share it here and help answer a couple of questions some may have had. But it's mostly fluff. In time for Valentine's Day too ;) Feedback appreciated as always._**

* * *

London, Great Britain,

1 year ago

Moriarty considered himself a sensible man for the most part. He rarely acted on impulse unless no other options were available to him. He put logic before feeling, and thought before intuition. And yet here he was again, lying naked beside her while she slept in the crook of his arm. He knew the second he grabbed her and kissed her that he was making a mistake but these thoughts quickly dispelled once she began to kiss him back with equal passion. Whatever it was between them was neither logical nor sensible. She just had this hold over him and no amount of criminal consultation grandeur could shake her out of his head. No matter how much he hated her he still kept ending up here.

He didn't understand it, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to. Having her writhing beneath him and endeavoring to not gain the attention of the other Baker Street residents was all too thrilling for him. Why would he want to over-complicate something that was just good ole fun? But it was already complicated. They both had conflicting directions in life. He knew he would have to kill her sooner or later. He grimaced at the thought. Killing her would be a damn shame. He brushed a finger down her bare shoulder and imagined not being able to touch her again… or kiss her… or be inside of her. He rolled on his back and groaned, running a hand down his face. What was _wrong_ with him?

The faint light through the curtain caught his eye. Morning was approaching. He couldn't be here. He knew that when she'd wake up that he'd want to stay for longer. That would inconvenience all his plans.

He slowly, carefully removed his arm from under her and quietly dressed. He slipped out into the bedroom and gently shut the door behind him. That was when he noticed a familiar manila folder on the coffee table. The corner of his mouth quirked upward.

 _Oh Sherlock, you petty fool._

He climbed up on an armchair and peered into the corner of the ceiling where the tiny camera was installed. He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin and tilted his head to the left and to the right.

"Hope you got my good side, Mycroft," he whispered. He puckered his lips and made an air-kiss.

He then made his way across the room, out of the camera's line of sight. He entered the spare room and shut the door behind him. Of all the renovations Mrs. Hudson made to the place, she egregiously overlooked one. The basement-style windows were too small for anyone to fit through when opened. However, the one in the spare room was not fitted properly and could be pushed out by its entire frame. It was easy for anyone to slip in and out of the alleyway behind Baker Street. Fortunately for Moriarty, no burglars had figured this out yet or the window would have to be repaired and he would no longer have his easy access to 221C. He slipped out quietly, replacing the frame behind him so that it looked as though it had never been touched. A pair of headlights veering past the top of the lane-way caught his attention.

 _Ah. That would be all the king's horses then. Sorry boys, no time for you today._

He strolled down the lane, watching the stars fade with the dawn.


	17. Chemistry

_**Author's Note: Blergh. Super not happy with this chapter but I couldn't another thing with it. I've also noticed that this is my longest fic so far. It's getting hard to tell if things are coming together the way I want them to because I've been so close to the story for so long. Is the pace too slow? I've still got a long way to go to the end. Anyway, enough blathering from me. Here's another chapter. x**_

* * *

The fever fluctuated, unrelenting. The painkillers helped to bring Samantha's temperature down, but the effects would subside after a few hours, at times catching her while she was in deep sleep. This caused her fitful, restless sessions of nightmares and hallucinations. She quickly learned how to differentiate between the fever-driven images and reality, but the times where she caught glimpses of Moriarty by her side were more difficult to determine.

Eventually, as if reaching the end of a long nightmare-fuelled wasteland, she woke up. She had no sense of what time, or even what day it was. She reached for her phone that was left charging on the dresser. The battery was at 100%, she had 12 missed calls and had apparently been sleeping for 16 hours. Her message inbox was also full. Sighing, she sent a quick "I'm alive, talk later" text to Mycroft. He responded almost immediately of course but she chose to ignore it. Moments later her phone rang. She killed the call and sent a harsher "talk later" text. She was not in the mood for Mycroft. She carefully sat up and checked her wound, which by now had begun to crust over. Good. She would just have to hope it wouldn't bleed again.

She popped the painkillers and antibiotics that were on the dresser and lay back again, staring at the ceiling. What was she going to do here while she was recovering? Make a plan? She supposed she had plenty of time for that. Moriarty had said she was safe here, but that meant her actions would still be limited until the threat of a repeat attack had lifted.

Oh, right…Moriarty...

She wasn't sure how to feel about his presence here. She didn't trust him and probably couldn't afford to, but it seemed like he was an asset she couldn't ignore right now. She also had to face the fact that there was still a subtle chemistry between them. There. At least she admitted it to herself. Dr. Matheson would be proud. She knew this was something she'd have to keep in mind if she were to stay objective. She did not want to be marked as compromised on her mission report.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

No. She did not want to talk right now.

As the door opened she pretended to be asleep.

"I know you're awake," came Moriarty's voice, "Did you think you could fool me?"

"If you know I'm awake, then you should also know I'm not in the mood for company," Samantha retorted icily.

"Well then I won't stay long."

She felt his weight on the edge of the bed and she opened her eyes again.

"I brought you soup," he said, offering her a bowl.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Soup?"

"Soup."

She cautiously sat up, grimacing as her stitches tugged.

"Why?" she asked then.

Moriarty made a face.

"What do you mean ' _why_ '? Aren't you hungry?"

She didn't think of it until now but she hadn't eaten in at least 28 hours. She wasn't particularly hungry but her stomach did feel hollow.

"I meant, what do you want in exchange for soup?" she said, eyeing the bowl longingly.

"I'll take it back, shall I?" he said irritably, withdrawing the bowl again.

Samantha hesitated. It did smell good.

"Didn't think so." He left the soup on the dresser next to her.

"What is it?" she asked, taking the bowl and inspecting the contents with the spoon.

"Chicken noodle. Made it myself."

Samantha gave a small discrete smile. She recalled from her stay at his country house that Moriarty was not a bad cook.

"You look a little better," he said then.

She nodded in agreement.

"Feels that way. Here's hoping I won't be bed bound for too long," she said, "The sooner I can get back on the case, the better."

She brought a spoonful of broth to her mouth and swallowed. The warm, salty flavour did good to wash the dry, metallic taste from her tongue.

"Speaking of which," she continued, "Have you made any progress on your end?"

Moriarty lay back on the bed across her legs, his hands behind his head. Samantha felt a familiar knot in her stomach as he did so.

"I've been pushing Rin to get me an audience with Saito," he began.

"Saito?" she puzzled, wondering if she should know the name.

"There's more than one Yakuza gang in Osaka, my dear," he responded, gazing over at her with a spark of excitement in his wide eyes. "Saito and Tatsumi have been at odds for generations: turf wars, that kind of thing. While they both ran different operations (Tatsumi running their business through gambling and blackmail, and Saito through...more grand ventures), they had a tendency to clash when it came to sharing the same city. But their peace agreement was initiated by Rin's old man and the two have coexisted in harmony since."

"So you think Saito could give us a lead on the Tatsumi murder?" Samantha said.

"Precisely."

"But…?" she prompted when he never followed up.

"Well!" Moriarty sprang back up and propped himself on one elbow, "Saito is in prison. And as it so happens, notorious crime bosses tend not to have a whole lot of visitation rights. There's a _loooot_ of red tape to cut through-"

"And there it is," Samantha sighed, dropping the spoon in the bowl.

"There what is?"

"The favor you need from me," she quipped, "In exchange for soup."

Moriarty laughed heartily. "Why are you so paranoid?"

"Because! You're being…" she struggled to obtain an appropriate descriptor, " _nice_. It's disconcerting…"

"Would you rather I wasn't nice?"

"I'd rather you just be more...transparent."

"You really have trust issues."

"Hmm... I wonder why that could be."

There was a silence as Samantha held her gaze down, idly shifting around the noodles with the spoon. She had to be honest with herself, she had to be. That vexatious feeling she had whenever he was around was not just chemistry, it was also hurt. It was what armored her words whenever she felt it wrench in her gut. She knew the right thing to do would be to turn him in, but she didn't want to. It took her some time to realise but she was almost glad he wasn't locked up. It meant she would have the chance to exact her revenge for everything he put her through. But also, in a weird way, she had missed him. And she hated herself for it. Staying objective may be more difficult than she thought.

"I'll talk to Mycroft," she muttered, not looking up.

"Splendid!" Moriarty said, "I hope it goes without saying that I should go unmentioned."

"Of course."

Moriarty leaped up, harping on about something about a beautiful friendship. As he was about to take his leave he lingered in the doorway. He looked back at her, his mouth open as if he were about to say something. He seemingly decided against it though and left without another word.


	18. Power Move

Mycroft was predictably irate with Samantha's lack of effort to make contact, despite her explaining what had happened to her (of which she garnered little sympathy from him).

"Complications happen, Mycroft," she tried to reassure him, "Besides, I've allied with the Tatsumi family since it seems we have a common factor in all this." She informed him of the Tatsumi's role, leaving out Moriarty's involvement of course. A half-truth was still better than no truth she reasoned. She also mentioned Saito, the boss of the other Yakuza organisation, and how he might be crucial to the investigation.

"You suspect Saito is responsible for the money coming into the country?" Mycroft queried.

"From what Rin Tatsumi told me, if he was laundering, it would be uncharacteristic of him," Samantha replied, relaying what Moriarty had told her when she asked to clarify a few things before making the call, "As far as she knows, he never conducted business as far as Great Britain. But also he's in prison, so any current activity within his business is kept small scale."

"Unless he has a traitor in his midst," Mycroft mused.

"Just what I was thinking-" this was actually proposed by Moriarty "-but would they be the same person that killed Rin's father? And what would be their motivation?"

"Power it would seem."

That made sense. One mob boss dead, the other in jail, a power move seemed to be appropriate motivation.

"I need to interview Saito," Samantha continued, "And I can't just walk into a Japanese prison and demand an audience. Is there anything you can do on your end?"

Mycroft audibly groaned which caused Samantha to roll her eyes. Asking Mycroft for favors was always met with disdain.

"Is there no other angle you can tackle this from?" he asked piteously.

"It's the only lead I have right now."

"Oh alright. I'll see what I can do. You're on standby until further notice. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Was that you expressing concern about my wellbeing?" Samantha teased, her mouth quirking upward with amusement.

"Something like that. Consider this a period of sick leave until you recover. I'll be in touch."

He hung up before she could get another word in.

* * *

Nika leaned back on the kitchen counter and took a drag of her cigarette. This place wasn't so bad but she wondered how safe they were here. While the Yakuza's hit on her had cooled, she and Moriarty were still wanted by others, and she hoped that their recent activity hadn't appeared on the grid again. Still, it was better than the dingy hostel they had been staying at.

At the corner of her eye, she spotted Moriarty sitting quietly on an armchair. His eyes were shut but she knew he wasn't sleeping. His posture was upright and his arms rested on the sides of the chair. She recognised this as his thinking state. He was deep inside his head solving some complicated problem. Good, she thought. At least he was doing something useful. She took another drag of the cigarette.

"You don't smoke," Moriarty said, unmoving.

"Jirou does," Nika replied, exhaling.

"So you cave to peer pressure?" He turned his head to look at her. She chuckled.

"I only smoke on two occasions," she said, "After I've blown something up, and after sex."

"Oh. I feel kind of bad for never having a cigarette to give you then." He stood and ambled towards her, his hands in his pockets.

"Are you done with him by the way?" he continued, "I do need him to run a few errands for me."

"He's all yours," she shrugged, "I think he likes me best though."

Moriarty pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"I miss Sebastian," he muttered.

"Hmm, yes he was a good shag too," she replied fondly.

"Jesus, Nika!"

"Did I say that right? 'Shag'? I think I heard someone call it 'rooting' in New Zealand. English is a funny language."

Moriarty sighed in despair.

"Just send the kid to me, why don't you?" he said.

Nika straightened her posture and regarded him with a tilt of her head. He seemed more rested and focused than before. They now had an objective other than run which seemed to spur him out of his mental rut. And something else... Was he, dare she say, happier too? Still, he wasn't 100%. He was lacking that ' _je ne sais quoi_ ' that made him... well... Moriarty.

"It is sounding like you have a plan," she ventured.

"Hmm...Plan," he enunciated as if trying the word for the first time, "I don't really have a singular plan per se, but I do have a sort of mindmap of all the possible circumstances we could potentially hit from here. Why? Are you looking for something to do?"

"Am I on this mindmap?" she chuckled.

"Just work with Jirou. Outside the bedroom, if you can help yourself, or it will be coming out of your salary."

Nika grinned slyly, and the quirk in Moriarty's expression meant he knew she had something she wanted to tell him then.

"He talks, you know," Nika said coolly as she took a smoke. "He has a lot of information he does not even realise might be relevant."

"Such as...?"

The intrigue in his tone gave her a small swell of pride. This she hadn't felt in a while.

"The Tatsumi's used to fight a lot," she said, leaning her elbows back on the counter top.

"The twins?"

"All of them. The brother, the sister, the father."

"The mother?"

"Died in childbirth. The father had a...difficult relationship with the children."

"What did they fight about?"

"Everything."

Moriarty's gaze fell to the side, clearly processing this new information and merging it into his mindmap.

"Well then," he said pensively, " by all means work with him in the bedroom. See what else he wants to get off his chest."

Just then, Nika heard a stirring from upstairs. Not Jirou. It was their other...housemate.

"What are we doing with her?" she said pointedly.

Moriarty's black eyes snapped back to hers.

"We need her," he said.

"Come on," she reasoned, "I can take her out. She's just a liability."

" You will do no such thing."

Nika bristled. Moriarty was the smartest man she had ever met but he was an idiot for that woman. Anyone could see that.

"You have gone soft," she said, and just as she put the cigarette to her mouth, Moriarty's hand shot forward and clutched her by the jaw, his fingers digging hard into her face. He stared, eyes wide and manic as if he were about to cannibalise her there on the spot. She was alarmed at first, but then found herself fighting a triumphant grin. There he was, the real Moriarty. She knew he was in there somewhere.

With his other hand he reached up, swiped the cigarette from between her lips and ground it into the tile floor with his shoe.

"Keep your lungs clean," he said, "I need you fighting fit."

"Yes, boss," she replied with satisfaction.

He didn't even flinch when she released the smoke into his face.


	19. Complicated

Somewhere outside London, Great Britain

2 years ago

"You have quite the collection of scars," Moriarty mentioned as his fingers lightly brushed Samantha's skin.

Samantha lay with her back to him feeling the goosebumps prickle with his touch.

Oh god. What was she doing here again? She told herself the first time would be a once-off and yet somehow she let this happen a second time. She could blame the Scotch. She did have a glass or two or three last night. Memories of ripping off clothes, of tongue and teeth and nails reeled vividly in her head just then and she clutched her pillow tightly as if to suppress the shame she was feeling right now.

"This one is a bullet wound," Moriarty said then, drawing a circle in her shoulder.

She snorted and said, "The others aren't as interesting. Mostly training accidents if you must know. Apart from this," she turned slightly and ran a finger down the long scar on her outer thigh, "I got this on one of my earlier missions. I fell through a window while chasing a target in Moldova. I had to take months of physio before I was fully recovered."

"Ouch."

"Ouch indeed."

She lay on her back and gazed up at him. Her head was spinning and she couldn't tell if it was the hangover or the way he was looking at her just now. This was crazy. She was crazy.

"And what about this one?" he said, tracing the wide, slightly curved scar on her lower abdomen. "Looks old."

"Ah. This one is the least exciting. I would probably bore you," Samantha replied.  
Moriarty gave a small shrug.

"If you were boring me I wouldn't be here," he said.

Samantha chortled.

"Ok," she said, "If you must know, I was diagnosed with endometriosis when I was fifteen. It was…debilitating. It interfered with my training and made it near impossible to keep up with my peers. I was given the choice of a lifetime of hormone treatment and painkillers or-"

"Hysterectomy," Moriarty concluded. "Did your employers provide that for you?"

"Yes. All agents are given the choice of contraception or sterilisation anyway. Anyone looking to start a family may do so but they will be discharged. You'll be surprised how few agents we had to let go for this reason. The agency is good at finding people who will be of long term value to them."

A thought occurred to her just then.  
"You must not want kids," she said.

"I don't know what I'd do with them," he chuckled.

"Well…who's going to take over your empire when you're gone? Who's going to own this lovely house of yours?"

"What would I care if I'm dead?"

Samantha laughed.

"Pragmatic," she said, "Fair enough."

A moment of silence fell between them. Samantha suddenly became acutely aware of his naked body next to hers and a gush of heat swelled in her chest. As he brought his face to hers she stopped him and said, "What are we doing?"

His brow creased in puzzlement and the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"I thought that was obvious," he murmured.

"I assure you, it is not."

Moriarty rolled his eyes.

"I was under the impression that we were having fun," he replied, brushing her hair back with his fingers.

"Fun, in my experience, tends to get…complicated," she whispered.

Moriarty gave her a look.  
"Do I look like a guy who let's things get complicated?"

"I don't know."

Samantha felt she had overstepped her bounds somehow, as if she were accusing him of having a weakness.

"Well," he drew closer to her, bringing a hand to her inner thigh, "If that's how you feel, we could always stop having fun."

Her breath hitched as his hand travelled upward.

"I never said I wanted to stop," she said, her mouth brushing against his as she spoke.

"I don't either. Let's not overcomplicate things, shall we?"

With that he caught her mouth in a kiss, dispelling all her doubts with it.


	20. House of Madness

_**Author's Note: You can probably tell by my infrequent updates that I've reached the middle of the story which I always have trouble with. This chapter took me sooooo long to write. I was literally scraping lines together. I don't like it, but anyway... reviews appreciated. Thanks for reading =)**_

The itching had begun and it was unbearable. It was taking all of Samantha's willpower not to rip her stitches out just to end it all.

It had been several days since she last spoke to Mycroft and the madness from being idle was setting in. She was not permitted to leave the house until she was either fully healed or the threat of assassination had lifted. When she wasn't spending her days alone flicking through Japanese TV channels, she was spending them in insufferable company.

Nika and Jirou were either fucking or fighting. Nika's task to train the young man in a number of skills, including hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship, often led to screaming matches between the two. Moriarty, ironically, offered some sanity in this house of madness, and even at that Samantha could only stand him in short bursts. Her room at least provided privacy and solitude, but also loneliness. Having never had a home before, the feeling of homesickness was new to her. She never thought she would miss a bed or a café or a city the way she was missing them right now. She also missed John. Having a friend was strange and new to her too but she also wondered how she lived so long without one. There was Paolo, sure, but John was someone she could text on a whim when she was feeling blue, or ask out for a coffee and a chat during the week. She was probably missing these things because she had no work to distract her.

"What are you watching?" Moriarty asked cynically from where he leaned against the back of the couch.

A piff of air escaped Samantha's lips. "Some sort of high school drama thing," she replied, gesturing at the TV, "It's the only decent show on this hour of the day."

"Decent? Are you actually following it?"

"Kind of. Hiro just cheated on Jun with Midori so it just got interesting. We don't like Midori."

"You've completely lost it, haven't you?"

"Just a tad."

She sighed and checked her phone. It hadn't blipped or vibrated at all since she last spoke to Mycroft. She was starting to wonder if it was broken. Even her Facebook feed was sparse for updates and John's blog had been idle all week. It was as if all time outside this house had stopped.

Her stomach sank as Betty's photo appeared on her timeline. She was posing with another woman, both smiling and holding ice cream cones in a park. Her brow furrowed. Who was the woman she was with? Without thinking she tapped on Betty's profile and scrolled her timeline. Betty was never one for over-sharing and so her profile wouldn't answer her question.

Samantha caught herself then. What was she doing? This couldn't be jealousy, could it? She hadn't spoken to Betty in months and they were barely a thing to begin with.

"Look at that," said Moriarty, "She writes poetry."

Before Samantha could respond, the phone was plucked from her hand. She looked back in horror as Moriarty strolled toward the kitchen while reading the phone.

"I say, your girlfriend's a bit of an emo," he regarded.

"She's not my- Give that back!" She pulled herself up carefully, still stiff from the injury.

"And here's one about you!" He was emanating glee like a child on Christmas morning. "Shall I read it to you?"

"Don't you dare."

He backed away as she approached him, keeping the distance between them.

"The light in your emerald eyes dimmed that day, as you watched me walk away-" he orated, walking backwards as Samantha pursued him.

"Give me my phone," she said. She struggled to keep her voice steady as her ears burned with humiliation.

"Was it you? Was it me? Were we even meant to be?" Moriarty continued, reveling in the moment.

"I mean it!"

"If I could turn back time, I'd make you mine-"

"Mr. Moriarty!"

"My love, my light, my queen."His back hit a wall, and the last line was read with the device raised above him as Samantha reached for it. His eyes met hers then, his expression both pitying and jeering.

"You heartbreaker," he drawled.

Samantha hesitated, the words from the poem slowly sinking in.

"She…she wrote that about me?"

The moment was interrupted by the jangle of keys at the front door. Nika entered just then and shot them a disapproving glare when she noticed them. Samantha realised that having Moriarty backed against a wall was not exactly a good look. With a huff, she snapped the phone from his hand and returned to the couch. She deleted the Facebook app and her web history, feeling the heat of indignation in her face.

"We are not interrupting, I hope?" Nika said bluntly. She cast a disparaging look from Samantha to Moriarty and back.

"Interrupt away," replied Samantha. "In fact if you can grab Moriarty's full attention I'd be much obliged."

Jirou landed through the open door then, pulling a familiar suitcase and backpack with him.

"Hey, my things!" Samantha exclaimed in surprise.

"I sent for your belongings to be collected from the place you were staying before the attack," Moriarty said. "We'll probably need your mission dossier if we're going to work together."

"Of course," Samantha muttered, taking her luggage, "It's always about you."

"And maybe you could lose the attitude. It's getting boring." His tone had changed suddenly. He seemed to have switched from playful to austere in a matter of seconds. She wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to his sudden flip in demeanor, but then she noticed Nika burning a hole through his skull with her wicked cat-like eyes. It was clear to her that there was some quarrel between the two but she had neither the time nor interest to involve herself.

"I am not for your amusement," she said, taking her leave, "I'll be in my room."


	21. Identity

Copenhagen, Denmark

15 years ago

It was busy along the promenade. Lunch hour had arrived and the tables that lined outside the cafés were full.

Samantha's eyes darted from person to person, unsure of where she was supposed to be. And then she spotted her, an elderly white woman with silver hair sitting alone under a green parasol. With a deep breath Samantha approached and stood at one side of the table to face her.

"Madam," she said respectfully.

The woman gestured for Samantha to take a seat, and she complied without a word. There was an impenetrable silence between them as the woman leafed through some documents. Samantha clasped her hands together, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

"Agent 42-12-19 -"

"Samantha," Samantha insisted.

"I'm looking at your records and I'm wondering why someone who was top of their class, with 100% success rate on missions so far - and with missions done so cleanly that an increase in your security clearance is being considered - wants to leave the agency."

"Well that's the thing, madam," Samantha replied, her mouth suddenly dry, "I don't want to leave. That was just something I said to get someone's attention."

The woman pursed her lips, vexation crossing her features.

"Then why have you decided to waste my time?" she said.

Samantha took a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat. She had rehearsed this conversation over and over in her head but still found it difficult to speak.

"I want to know who my parents are," she said in one quick exhale, "I want to know who I am and where I came from."

The woman placed her palms on the table before her and sighed.

"Agent, your identity has been erased. We don't have the resources to-"

"Bullshit."

The woman lapsed into silence with a steely glare. Samantha held her ground. Keep trying, keep fighting. That's what Paolo told her. The higher-ups kept themselves shrouded in their own sense of self importance that it was difficult to even reach them by phone, let alone in person.

"You said yourself that you didn't want to leave the agency," the woman said, "Recovering your identity will compromise your position, put the entire agency itself in jeopardy. If you have a fixed identity you are vulnerable. Do you understand?"

"Yes, madam."

"So if you want to find out who you are, then you may do so, but it will cost you your position in the agency."

Samantha cast her eyes downward, thinking carefully.

"Then what if I left?" she said.

The woman laughed.

"Do you think you're ready for that?"

"Other people have done it," Samantha shrugged, "Why can't I?"

"Other people have somewhere to go, or someone to go with. What would you do? Where would you go? Do even know anyone on the outside? How will you survive?"

"What happens to those who retire?"

The woman sighed. She seemed tired.

"Retirees receive a severance package from the agency," she spoke, "We write a new life for them, offer them a pension. But that is a reward for a lifetime of service. Those who choose to leave before retirement receive nothing."

Samantha's throat tightened. All that fuss, all that effort she made to get here was all for nothing. She felt utterly deflated.

"I understand, madam," she uttered, blinking hard against threatening tears, "I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

She stood to take her leave.

"Samantha," the woman said, stopping Samantha in her tracks, "You're a good agent. If you keep it up you could be looking at early retirement with a generous severance package."

Samantha gave a curt nod but was not reassured. She thought she had grasped a hope of finding herself, of having control, but that hope was snuffed out as soon as it found kindling.

"Thank you, madam," was all she said and she strolled back out to the promenade, losing herself to the crowd.


	22. A Lot of Thinking To Do

_**Author's Note: Welcome, new followers! I've been quite busy of late and I can't promise my posts will be more frequent but I do value your patience. Some more Samantha/Moriarty moments to be had in the coming chapters. Stay tuned! =)**_

Samantha was glad to have her laptop back in her possession. At least she had a means to fill her time, and as much as she hated writing out mission reports it was still a hell of a lot better than watching soaps all day. Mycroft had sent her a dossier on Saito and his operations but there was still no word on when she would be allowed to speak with him. Nonetheless, she took this time to do her homework and prepare herself for the meeting.

Hours of precious solitude had passed before she received an incoming video call. This she was not expecting. She hesitated a moment, her finger poised over the answer button, as she tried to imagine who on Earth could be calling her. It couldn't have been Mycroft, video calls weren't his style. She answered and was surprised to see Dr. Matheson's face appear on the screen.

"Oh," she blinked, "I wasn't expecting… Is everything alright?"

"Good morning, Samantha - or should I say 'good evening' considering the time zone?" Dr. Matheson droned.

"Um…are you supposed to be calling me? I'm kind of on a case right now."

"Orders from Mycroft," he said in a reassuring tone, "He wanted me to give you a quick assessment."

Samantha rolled her eyes.

"Quickly," she said. She glanced at the shut bedroom door and wondered if anyone could hear her. "But quietly. I'm not…in a very private place right now."

"How's the recovery going?" the doctor asked.

"You know about that, huh? It's going fine. I think. It's gone from excruciating pain to excruciating itching so there's that. Anything else?"

"How have you been since the attack?"

Samantha gave him a look.

"I'm traumatised," she said sarcastically, "I can't eat. I can't sleep. And when I do sleep I wake up in a nightmarish sweat."

"Still your usual self I see," the doctor replied scribbling down something in front of him.

"Please. If you thought a knife attack was something I couldn't handle do you think I'd even be here talking to you?"

"Point taken. How have you been sleeping by the way?"

"Oh much the same. Weird dreams though-"

Samantha stopped mid-sentence when she realised she had made a mistake.

"Tell me about these dreams," Dr. Matheson said automatically.

Samantha made an effort to suppress her disdain. She couldn't say that Moriarty played a starring role in her dreams at night. That would raise too many questions she didn't want to answer.

"I'm usually suffocating," she said, being deliberately vague, "It started the night I was attacked."

"Suffocating," he replied, his brows knitting together as he wrote, "Are you feeling overwhelmed at all?"

"Overwhelmed?" Samantha snorted, "No, of course not. If anything I'm underwhelmed. Sick leave is boring."

"What about in your personal life? Is there anything that's been weighing on your mind?"

Samantha reflected on this for a moment. Aside from her complicated feelings about Moriarty, she was also missing home and thinking about Betty. That poem, cheesy as it was, had impacted her in a way that she had never felt before. That someone had thought about her in that way - and was possibly still thinking about her - made Samantha believe that any kind of normal life was in some way attainable.

"I guess I'm still trying to figure out how to have a work-life balance," Samantha replied, "Before, there was no life, just work. Now that I seem to have both I don't know what to do. When I'm living I feel bad for not working, and when I'm working I feel bad for not living. Not something the agency prepares you for, I'll give you that."

"This is normal. You just need time to adjust," Matheson replied.

"Well…It's been months. How long do these things normally take?"

Dr. Matheson removed his glasses and steepled his fingers together, his elbows on his desk.

"You are talking about undoing a lifetime of conditioning, Samantha," he explained patiently, "Something like that can take years before you fully adjust."

Samantha faltered.

"Years?" she cried, then quieter so as not to attract unwanted attention, "You mean I'm going to have nightmares for years?"

"Well, it's a process. You may go from nightmares to something else, and then that something else to an entirely different thing. We'll monitor your progress as you go."

Samantha shook her head. Suddenly "normal" seemed to be something just beyond the horizon all over again.

"Well, I think I have enough to work with for the moment," Dr. Matheson said, "Unless there's anything else you'd like to discuss?"

Samantha paused. She considered telling him about Moriarty only for that his presence was driving her crazy, and crazy was Dr. Matheson's area of expertise. She almost told him too, the words flooding behind her teeth, waiting to burst out as soon as she opened her mouth.

"No, I don't think so," she said instead.

"Very well," he replied, "We'll reconvene in a month's time."

"Right. Well this has been...fun. Good evening -eh, morning - doctor."

With that the call disconnected.

Samantha returned to her work but found that she couldn't focus. She had an opportunity to air her grievances but she didn't take it. She needed to talk to someone but there weren't many people she could trust. She tapped the edge of her laptop anxiously.

"Screw it," she muttered as she dialed a new video call.

The connection seemed to hang for what seemed like an eternity before the screen lit up to display what appeared to be a ceiling.

"Hold on," came the voice on the other end. The video jerked and the microphone scratched until John Watson's face was framed neatly within her laptop screen. She smiled.

"Hi John."

"Samantha!" he said in plain surprise, "I almost didn't answer, your account seems to be set to private."

"Yes, I'm still working I'm afraid so it's a requirement. I'm stuck here for a while so I thought I'd say hi. Hi!"

"Hi! How's work?"

"I can't tell you," she chuckled.

"Ah. Her majesty's secret service," John tapped the side of his nose, "Gotcha."

They made idle chit-chat. Everything seemed business as usual back in London. John was picking up hours at work between adventures with Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson had put up 221C for rent again.

"Oh! And I ran into Betty they other day. She was asking about you," John said, and then, "but we don't need to talk about that?" when it was clear to him that Samantha was telegraphing discomfort.

"John," she said, eager to change the subject, "How well do you know Mycroft?"

John blinked.

"Um…Well enough?" he answered, "Why?"

"There's…information I'm withholding from him about the mission. My reasons for doing so are my own but I'm wondering if I'm making a mistake in that."

There was a long silence. John seemed to think about this as if it were a question that should not have been for him.

"Well…" he said with a breath, "Knowing Mycroft, if there's something you're keeping from him it's likely he already suspects this. At any rate, it wouldn't be in your best interests to be dishonest with him."

Samantha nodded in acquiescence.

The sound of a phone alarm sounded through the speakers just then. John grabbed his phone and grimaced at the screen.  
"Sorry, Samantha. I have a shift at the clinic today. Catch up with you later?"

"Of course!" Samantha said with a wide smile, "It was nice to see you again. Can't wait to get back to London."

"Homesick? That's new for you. Might be a good thing though?"

"Well, we'll see."

After they said their goodbyes and the call disconnected, Samantha shut her laptop and lay back on her bed. She stared at the blank white ceiling and sighed. She had a lot of thinking to do.


	23. Not a Doubt

_**Author's Note: So this is probably the longest story I've ever written. It's starting to get hard of keeping track of all the characters and plot lines. How am I doing? Will try to update soon. Thanks for reading =)**_

Jirou wasn't good with a knife or a gun or with his fists. But he had a way with people and that was how he had gotten by in life. Rin never saw this as having any value but Moriarty did. That was why he bought him a fine suit, stuffed the pockets with Yen and sent him on this very important errand.

Jirou sat in a dark corner of the bar twisting the whiskey tumbler between this thumb and middle finger. His contact approached, hesitating by the table.

"Mr. Moriarty?" The syllables were strained through the thick accent. Jirou glanced up at him. The contact, Pravat Srisati, was a tall Thai man with broad shoulders. He was somewhere in his forties, though his silvery hair made him look older.

"Mr. Moriarty sends his apologies for not being here right now," said Jirou, "He sent me in his place. Call me Jirou. Please take a seat."

"Moriarty didn't say anything about you," Srisati grumbled as he sat on the vacant stool.

"Again, apologies," Jirou said with a grin, "And straight to business: I have been told you have something Mr. Moriarty wants."

Srisati glanced warily around the bar and leaned in.

"The money," he demanded quietly.

Jirou gave a placating smile, reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a wad of Yen, but only enough so that his contact could see the corner of it.

From the sleeve of his forest green coat, Srisati produced a pen drive. Jirou went to take it but it was yanked out of his reach before he could.

"The money," Srisati said again.

Jirou paused, thinking carefully. If Srisati just walked away with the money, leaving Jirou empty handed, then he would probably not be allowed to work with Moriarty anymore. On the other hand, if he didn't put Srisati in good faith he could blow the deal altogether. He took his chances and slid the wad of notes across the table. The Thai man flicked through the notes with his thumb before discretely tucking them into his coat. He then slid the pen drive across to Jirou and before taking his hand from it he said, "Blueprints, names, shift rotations, door codes. This was everything I could get."

"Mr. Moriarty will be pleased," Jirou said politely as he took the drive.

"Tell him I think he's a crazy son of a bitch if he thinks he can get in and out alive."

Jirou smiled down at his glass, circling the rim with one finger.

"You are probably right," he said, "We'll need someone on the inside to pull this off." He looked back up at Srisati whose features shifted with realisation.

"No," he said. "Fuck no. I risked everything getting out of there. I'm not going back."

Jirou slid one hand inside his breast pocket and produced another wad of cash, thicker than the last. He left the cash in the middle of the table as an offering, hoping Srisati would make the right decision.

"Another when the job is done," said Jirou.

Srisati took a deep breath and once again ran a thumb through the cash. He let out a perplexed sigh.

"That's a lot of money," he said.

"Mr. Moriarty looks after his own," Jirou beamed. A truth he found while working with Moriarty. For despite his threats and his often unpleasant demeanor, if one pleased Moriarty, Moriarty gave much in return.

Srisati hesitated, tapping his finger next to the cash as if it were forbidden fruit.

"Ok," he said.

Jirou grinned broadly and pushed the money across the table.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Srisati." He then downed the rest of his whiskey, trying not to grimace as the liquor burned his throat.

* * *

"This doesn't feel weird at all," Samantha said drolly, one arm draped across her face. Nika watched as the old medicine woman began removing the stitches from her abdomen.

"I thought you would have been used to getting patched up by now, considering your medical history," Moriarty said from where he stood, leaning forward on the kitchen counter.

"It will never not feel weird."

Nika scowled at them. They were disgusting. For a whole week she had to put up with their banter and flirting. It was sickening.

From the array of gun parts before her, Nika selected the barrel and began to polish it with a cloth. Since they moved into the safe house she had disassembled, polished and reassembled her gun so many times that it had all the mechanical fluidity of when she had first bought it. There was little else to do these days.

"Someone talk to me so I don't have to think about surgical thread being pulled through my skin," Samantha said.

"Are you so squeamish?" Moriarty goaded.

"I can handle pain if that's what you're implying. This is just…unpleasant."

"Poor dear."  
"Shut up."

Nika sighed and slammed the gun part down on the table before her.  
"So what is our next move?" she said, unable to tolerate those two any further, "How much longer are we stuck here playing house?"

"Well funny you should mention it," said Samantha, "I just got the green light to interview Saito. I plan on heading to the prison Monday afternoon. Hopefully we'll get what we need to move this investigation forward."

"All well and good," said Moriarty, "but what about your back-alley attacker? You're no good to us bed-bound again. Or dead."

"I'll take extra precautions," Samantha replied, "But maybe I could do with a bodyguard for extra security." She flashed her green eyes towards Nika. Nika smiled bitterly though she would love nothing more than to smash Samantha's pretty face into the coffee table.

Just then, the front door opened and Jirou entered. He was wearing a very expensive looking suit Nika had not seen before, and his loose hair was slicked back with product. He had also shaved that ratty facial hair so that he no longer looked like a teenager trying unsuccessfully to grow a beard.

"What's that?" Samantha asked as Jirou laid a briefcase on the kitchen counter.

"Rin has been busy obtaining police evidence from the Tatsumi crime scene," Moriaty replied, popping open the briefcase, "I'm sure there's something in here the police would have missed."

Nika wasn't sure if she imagined it, but she could have sworn she saw Jirou sneakily pass something to Moriarty's palm. He then whispered something in his ear, to which Moriarty nodded and said something like, "Good work." This worried her. Did Jirou have information that she wasn't being made privy to? Why did Moriarty suddenly place such trust in him?

The medicine woman stood then, her work finished. Samantha bowed and expressed gratitude in Japanese. The woman grumbled, waving a hand. She collected her things and left.

Samantha examined the pink scar that ran across her stomach.

"Another for the collection," said Moriarty.

"Indeed," Samantha replied. She pulled her shirt down and walked over to where Moriarty and Jirou were examining the contents of the briefcase. Nika watched as she began assembling the gun parts.

"What do you think?" said Moriarty sliding, what seemed to be a photograph, across the counter.

Samantha grimaced.

"That's a lot of blood," she replied, "Blunt force trauma. A crime of passion no doubt. Could fit with our existing theory. What else you got?" Moriarty watched her intently as she scanned a couple of more documents. There was not a doubt in Nika's mind what he was thinking at that very moment. This was a problem. Nika swore to herself that when all of this was over she was going to kill that wretched woman.


	24. Ruin Him

_**Author's Note: Ok, so I had this scene in my head since forever and I had no idea where to put it so I cheated and made it a fluffy flashback. There. It's out of my system**_

Somewhere outside London, Great Britain

2 years ago

Moriarty skipped through the front door, spinning on his heels as he shut it behind him. Everything was great. Everything was falling into place. He was positively giddy. He felt like music. As he strode down the hall he shuffled through his iPod until he found the right song. He then played it through the Bluetooth speakers built into his house. He rocked his hips to the intro and danced toward the study where he posed dramatically in the doorway.

Samantha, from where she sat at the computer, glanced up at him with one eyebrow raised.

"What has gotten into you?" she said tentatively. Her olive green eyes scanned him with suspicion.

"It's a beautiful day," he sang, "Everything is perfection." He shot out one hand. "Come dance with me."

Samantha gave an awkward laugh and said, "I still have work to do."

"Take the rest of the day off. That's an order."

Samantha threw her hands up in defeat and stood from her chair.

"Why aren't you dancing?" Moriarty remarked accusingly, swaying to the music.

"I don't really know this song."

Moriarty sputtered.

"How do you _not_ know David Bowie?" he cried, aghast. "Have you been living under a rock?"

She gave a guilty shrug.

"I guess I'm just not that into pop music," she said.  
That did it. Moriarty dropped his arms and looked at her as if she had just insulted his ancestors.

"Pop - _Pop_ music?" he uttered in disgust, "This is _classic rock_. How _dare_ you?"

Samantha shrugged again, her mouth twisted up in an apologetic smile.

"Come here," he said, grabbing her by the hand, "Let me educate you."

She laughed as he spun her toward him, a sound that both surprised and delighted him. She didn't laugh often, he noticed. He danced behind her, holding her hands with her arms criss-crossed around her.

" _You like me, and I like it all_ ," he sang to the lyrics, " _We like dancing and we look divine_."

"You're a terrible singer," Samantha commented.

"Shut up!" he said and he spun her again to face him. She looked directly at him, her eyes playful.

"So what has you in such a good mood?" she purred as she began to pop her hips to the beat.

The smile he hadn't noticed he was wearing waned slightly. He didn't particularly want to talk about work right now. More so, he didn't want to associate Samantha with work. At least not now. Not in this moment.

"I'd only bore you," he ushered.

"Worth a dance though?" she shrugged.

He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her closer.

"You and I have been working very hard these days," he said, "I think we deserve a dance."

"Fair enough," she replied, reaching up to rest her arms around his neck, "The music's not bad."

"You're really trying to wind me up, aren't you?"

"Is it working?"  
"A little."

She laughed again, and as she flashed him a brilliant grin he knew with absolute certainty that she was going to ruin him. But in this moment, with her hips between his hands and her forehead touching his, part of him was ok with this.


End file.
